


Endless Fall

by pancakewars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakewars/pseuds/pancakewars
Summary: Six years after Glenn’s disappearance, Felix returns home to the small town of Fhirdiad after dropping out of university. The one thing that hasn’t changed about being back, annoyingly, is his feelings for Sylvain. And much like when they were younger, Sylvain always seems just out of reach; the more time Felix spends with him, the bigger his secrets grow.But Felix isn’t the only one with secrets: his friends’ adult lives aren’t as perfect as they seem, the tranquility of Fhirdiad seems to be a facade... and there’s something in the woods.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 46
Kudos: 117
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	Endless Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sylvix Big Bang 2020, and officially the longest fic I've written!! This AU is inspired by the game Night in the Woods, but no background knowledge is required for reading. Please do heed the warnings! Most notably, this fic contains (minor) character death.
> 
> The lovely artist (@cherryconke) I was paired with drew several _very_ beautiful pieces for this fic, which can be viewed [here](https://twitter.com/cherryconke/status/1297220955714985984?s=20)!
> 
> And finally, the many people to whom I owe my eternal love and gratitude: my sister, who helped me an incredible lot with the conceptualisation of this fic, [Alice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kierenwalkers), who looked this over and provided much-needed encouragement, [Reet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girltalk/pseuds/girltalk), who caught my 489304 typos and once again saved me from my own lack of html know-how, and last but definitely not least, my dear friend H, who gave me lots of valuable writing advice ♥

The sun has set by the time Fhirdiad Station comes into view, its flickering lights stark against the darkness. Felix alights onto the platform, bag in hand and guitar case slung over his shoulder. The train doors close with a soft _whoosh_ behind him.

The night air is crisp, just short of chilly. Not as cold as he’d been expecting for this time of the year. For some reason, a faint sense of disappointment stirs in him, not unlike how he had felt watching Garreg Mach University grow smaller and smaller in the distance, disappearing into the hills when the train turned a bend.

He breathes out a soft exhale, turns and heads for the stairs. Past the words _Welcome to Fhirdiad_ splayed in bold lettering across a sign board that he’s certain looked welcoming in the day, but by night looks eerie, at best. Past a vending machine at the far end of the platform that boasts an assortment of coloured drinks. It’s the same machine that they used to dare each other to kick as children, in the naive hope of knocking a can loose.

An old man sits at a bench near the station exit. It’s Klaus, Felix realises, the very same whose porch Felix often visited when he was young, whose violent stories of battlefields and bloodshed Felix always looked forward to. Klaus is probably the only remaining resident of Fhirdiad old enough to even remember the war. Felix has no idea how he’s still alive.

He hadn’t expected to have to speak to anyone tonight. Klaus stands as he approaches, and Felix waits apprehensively as the old man peers at him, a slow recognition spreading across the deep-set wrinkles of his face.

“Glenn?” Klaus asks, and Felix feels his heart sink. “Glenn Fraldarius? Is that you?”

And of course Felix would never be free from this— not where people know his family, where Glenn’s shadow looms largest. He’s only just arrived, and already it’s obvious how foolish he’d been to think that Fhirdiad, of all places, would allow him a fresh start.

“Not Glenn,” Felix mutters, staring down at chipped concrete. “Felix.”

“Felix,” Klaus laughs sheepishly. “Of course, of course. The little one. For a second there, I thought— but no. Forgive me. You’ve been at university, haven’t you?” Felix grunts an acknowledgement, and Klaus continues. “Rodrigue speaks of you very proudly, you know. Your friends always talk about you— that one boy in particular.”

Felix looks up at him sharply, a question on his tongue.

“What was his name?” Klaus scratches his head. “The mayor’s son.”

“Oh,” Felix swallows, looking down again, a slow-blossoming guilt now mixed in with the disappointment. “Right. Ex-mayor.” He doesn’t know what’s worse— this or the knowledge that his father speaks about him at all.

“Ex-mayor,” Klaus agrees. “But the only man who deserved the title. Things haven’t been the same since. Businesses shutting, no visitors... Even the church isn’t what it used to be. Of course, the folk in the nicer part of town hardly notice it.”

Felix nods absently, trying to recall the last time he’d been to church. They were all made to go as children— even Glenn, in a pressed white shirt, slacks, and a bowtie he absolutely hated, that Felix would bring up whenever they got into an argument. Years later, Glenn wore the same bowtie to one of their many performances playing hymns for the church. A statement to reclaim his childhood, was what Ingrid called it. That had been the last time Felix stepped foot into church— as a teenager, with his band. It feels like an age ago.

For a while, there’s silence. And then: “Rodrigue coming to pick you up?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he forgot,” Felix lies, gazing out at the expanse of road that stretches into the darkness. “I know a shortcut back, anyway.”

Klaus watches him from under thick white brows. “Through the woods?”

“Yeah,” Felix answers, glad for an opening to take his leave. “Through the woods.” He doesn’t bid Klaus goodbye as he departs, adjusting the strap of his guitar case so that it doesn’t dig too hard into his shoulder.

“Be careful,” Klaus calls after him. “You don’t know what you might find in there.”

“There’s nothing in the woods, old man,” Felix scoffs, enough distance between them for Klaus not to hear. The thicket of trees begins almost as soon as the station is behind him, and Felix cuts through, mood slightly soured after the conversation he’d just had. He walks without pausing until the lights from the station have faded completely and he can no longer feel Klaus’ gaze on his back.

The woods at night turn out to be strangely peaceful. The hum of insects is interrupted only by the crunching of leaves beneath his boots, the occasional rush of wind through the trees. The stars aren’t bright enough to light the way, so Felix mostly trusts his feet to navigate for him. Over slopes, across a plank bridge suspended over a pond, past a broken signpost and discarded bicycle, their shapes distorted in the inky blackness.

A childish thrill runs through him; though he played frequently in the woods as a kid, he’d never been allowed out here at night. The feeling fades as he reaches a clearing and makes out the familiar shape of a treehouse, a dark shape in the canopy. The treehouse was built by someone’s uncle, or maybe grandfather, Felix doesn’t quite remember. Sturdy with a rope ladder leading up to the entrance, and spacious enough to house a bunch of kids in the middle of summer.

Felix wonders whether Glenn came through these woods the night he left. He must have.

A sudden rustling shakes him out of his thoughts, and Felix stills. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere behind him. A dull thump accompanies distant shuffling. It doesn’t sound like the work of the wind, but like movement.

Felix holds his breath and listens, careful not to make a sound. Seconds pass, but the noises disappear as quickly as they’d started up.

Save the chirping of crickets, the woods are quiet once again.

In all the time he’d spent in these woods as a child, Felix doesn’t recall having seen any animal larger than a squirrel. And as tempted as he is to investigate the source of the sounds, there would be little point in chasing what’s probably a wild animal in the dark. His bags are beginning to weigh heavy on his shoulders, anyway.

A deep rumble from above signals an impending storm. Reluctantly, Felix turns and continues on the path home.

“Felix?”

Evening the next day. There’s a clatter as a tray hits the hardwood of a tabletop and Ingrid rushes over, eyes impossibly round. Felix had spotted her as soon as he’d walked into the diner, its interior well-lit in an orange more welcoming than the shades of autumn outside. The only customers present are a young couple at a table near the door.

Felix had come deliberately at this hour, intent on avoiding prying eyes and questions about university for as long as possible. As she comes up to him, Felix sees that Ingrid’s blonde hair has been cut short, fastened back with a dark green ribbon. The last time Felix had seen her, her hair had come down to her waist.

“Felix, what are you...” She trails off, clearly at a loss. “You’re here. You’re _back_.” There’s a question underlying her words, one Felix hopes she won’t articulate. Two years isn’t a long time to be away, he knows, but it’s easy to forget how big a deal leaving a small town steeped in tradition can be.

“Yeah,” Felix says, offering nothing.

Ingrid nods slowly, studying his face. Instead of meeting her eye, Felix looks around at the diner, busies himself identifying new pieces of decor. There are paintings on the wall that he’s never seen before— of Lake Teutates, the Bridge of Myrddin, what looks like Almyra. On the wall behind the cashier hangs a photo of Ingrid with her family, five pairs of gray-green eyes and matching smiles.

“Did something happen?” Ingrid finally asks, quiet. “Will you go back?”

“No,” Felix answers, turning back to look at her. “And no.”

Ingrid, his most perceptive friend, rarely needs things spelled out for her. It’s one of the reasons he’d come to see her first.

“Oh,” she says, face falling slightly.

Several seconds pass in silence. The way Ingrid looks at him reminds him of the way Rodrigue had looked when Felix had come through the front door last night, soaked through from trying to protect his bags from the rain, wet hair plastered to his face.

“Felix,” Rodrigue had said, setting down the evening paper. He sounded surprised. On the table in front of him sat a calendar, the last day of the month circled in red. “You should have called me. You told me you’d be back tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m back now,” Felix had replied.

“I’ll—” Rodrigue had started, making to stand, but Felix had immediately cut him off with a “Don’t bother.” Rodrigue had given him the look then, eyebrows drawn over searching eyes, right before Felix turned and trekked upstairs to his room.

Maybe it was pity. Felix had never been very good at reading other people’s emotions.

“Food,” Ingrid says abruptly, all business. Felix watches as she reaches over to grab a menu from the nearest table, handing it to him. “Let me get you something to eat? We added pheasant skewers to our menu recently. They’re very popular.” She flips through the menu in his hands until she finds the right page, pointing to the glossy photo with a slender finger. For the briefest second, Felix pictures those fingers poised over the keys of a piano.

He feels the tension in his shoulders ease as he nods, glad for the change in subject. He hadn’t come here to eat— but he supposes there’s no harm.

“Pheasant skewers,” Ingrid calls towards the kitchen. “And an iced pine tea.” She turns back to Felix. “Have you talked to Sylvain yet?”

It’s the first time Felix has heard Sylvain’s name spoken aloud in a long time. His chest tightens a fraction, but he ignores it and shakes his head. Ingrid gives him a pointed look. 

“You should. I would call him to come over, but he’ll be at work right now. Telling the old ladies how to spruce up their wardrobes this season, no doubt.” At Felix’s blank look, she elaborates. “At that clothing store on Fifth Avenue? You must know that much, at least.”

Felix doesn’t. He hasn’t spoken to Sylvain since he’d left, in the same way he hasn’t spoken to anyone from Fhirdiad. He should be thankful Ingrid isn’t upset with him. At the same time, he had known she wouldn’t be.

Ingrid directs him towards an unoccupied table when his food is served. “Sit,” she orders, sliding into the seat opposite. “And tell me whether this is any good.”

She watches as Felix bites experimentally into the skewers, chewing slowly. The taste of barbequed meat and spices floods his mouth. Like many of the dishes served at the diner, it makes him feel nostalgic for something he’s not sure he’s experienced.

“It’s good,” he tells Ingrid, and she smiles, chin resting in her hands. Felix takes a sip of his tea, looking around at the neatly-decorated space. What sounds like Manuela Casagranda’s oldest single is playing on the radio. “So you’re all set to run this place on your own.”

Ingrid had always been the most mature of their group of friends— because she was a girl, maybe, or because she had two younger brothers to look out for. The last time Felix had seen her, she’d been helping her parents out at this very diner, clearing tables and washing dishes. Seeing her now makes him feel like he’s watched her succeed.

Ingrid’s smile is wry. “I guess. My parents aren’t getting any younger, and it won’t be a few years until my brothers are out of school.”

She brushes a stray strand of hair from her face, and Felix suddenly thinks about how, long ago, Ingrid’s parents had wanted for her to marry Glenn when she grew up. Ingrid is one of the most headstrong people he knows, someone who works for what she wants. So was Glenn. Yet, Felix could never quite picture them together.

“Was it fun?” Ingrid asks.

Felix looks up at her, having missed the last thing she said. “Fun?”

“Leaving Fhirdiad to go somewhere,” she clarifies. “To go to university. Did you have fun?”

The question takes him by surprise. Back then, he had left because it felt like the only thing he could do. Having fun wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about. 

He thinks back on the last two years, attending classes and having a room in an unfamiliar place. Studying late into the night and waking up early to take a jog around campus. Joining a band, quitting two months later because it reminded him too much of his old one. Making music for himself and an audience of one. _Your bass is too sexy for my new song. I’ll get you a ukelele for your birthday._ A sweet singing voice. The same voice but louder, filled with anguish and rage. Yelling at him.

When Felix swallows, his throat burns.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was fun.”

It isn’t difficult to avoid drawing attention to himself during the day. Like Ingrid and Sylvain, most of the people who know him are busy working their nine-to-five jobs, neat little cogs in the smooth clockwork of their town. As sundown approaches, Felix climbs the stone steps leading up the tallest hill in town.

Once upon a time, the church had been a fortress— reaching upwards into the sky, stained glass windows iridescent in the light. Now, it’s no more than an old, weathered building with walls desperately in need of repair. Somehow, it’s equally unapproachable. Felix walks past it, keeping his head down. Past the statues of the Four Saints, whose heads and shoulders are dusted with fallen leaves. Past the old graveyard visible in the distance, until the trees thin out at the very edge of the hill.

From up here, almost the entirety of town can be seen. It was Glenn who had shown him this place, another precious secret between them, one few others knew about. The sun is low in the sky, tiny houses and tiny roads spread out like miniatures below him. As he takes in the familiar view, it’s not a sense of comfort Felix feels, but wistfulness.

There’s no fence to keep anyone from walking off the edge of the cliff, nothing to anchor oneself to— one of many reasons no one comes here. When Glenn was mad at him, he’d sometimes threaten to drag Felix up here and push him off. He’d never meant it, of course. All the same, Felix imagines what it would be like to fall from this height, to tumble towards the earth with no way of stopping. Down, down, down.

It’s a long way to fall.

“Hey,” says a voice from behind him, carried by the wind. Felix starts, breath catching in his throat. Even after two years, it’s a voice he would recognise anywhere.

He remains silent. Eventually, a figure steps up beside him.

“I thought you’d be here,” Sylvain says with a small laugh. “Ingrid told me you were back.”

Felix hadn’t been nervous about seeing Ingrid, so there’s no reason it should take him as long as it does to gather the courage to turn towards Sylvain. He doesn’t look all that different from the last time Felix saw him, other than his hair being a little longer— it’s windswept, somehow falling perfectly over his face, framing amber eyes and a playful half-smile. The orange of the fading light makes his skin practically _glow_.

There are few things more difficult than carrying a torch for your very attractive, very straight childhood best friend. Felix had realised this at the age of seventeen, watching Sylvain flirt shamelessly with every girl he talked to. Felix had convinced himself that several years away would be exactly what he needed to let go of all that. He had hoped it would be enough.

Seeing Sylvain again squeezes something in his chest, a gentle fist over his heart.

It’s unfair, really.

Sylvain seems to be waiting for Felix to say something. When he doesn’t, Sylvain takes a step back, giving Felix a once-over. “How _are_ you? How was it?”

More talk of Felix leaving as if he’d gone off on some grand adventure. Felix frowns, considers the question. Tries to distil the past two years into a singular description.

“It was… different.”

“Different,” Sylvain echoes. “How exactly?”

The look of genuine curiosity on his face makes Felix choose his words carefully. It’s hard to find even one thing Garreg Mach had in common with Fhirdiad— its landscape was different, its people different. Living there had been like existing in a different world altogether. There aren’t any words he can think of to articulate the sense of displacement, the simultaneous feeling of being granted a second chance. But Felix tries.

“Over there, nobody knows who you are. You make a name for yourself. Here, I’m Rodrigue’s son. Glenn’s brother. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Sylvain nods slowly, thoughtfully. It reminds Felix that Sylvain is capable of carrying a serious conversation, however much he liked to pretend he wasn’t. As if to challenge this, the pensive expression on Sylvain’s face morphs into a light-hearted one.

“So you didn’t miss this place? _I_ missed you, though.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “As if. How many girls did you date while I was gone?”

Sylvain grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Felix shakes his head, exasperated, turning his attention back towards the view. As the sky darkens, the houses below begin to light up gradually, like stars in a constellation. Nothing like anything he ever saw in Garreg Mach. Next to him, Sylvain is quiet.

Any remaining warmth fades with the last rays of daylight, until it’s just the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking down on their small world.

“Are you planning to stay out here forever?” Sylvain asks eventually, a shiver in his voice. He plays it off casually, though Felix is sure his coat doesn’t offer much protection against the wind. Fhirdiad weather isn’t to be messed with, even when it’s not winter.

“For as long as it takes for my dad to go to bed.”

Sylvain makes a noise of understanding. “How about my place, then? It’s... well, it’s warmer than standing out here, that’s for sure. Also, if you haven’t eaten, I’ll make you dinner?”

Felix shoots him an incredulous look, realising belatedly that Sylvain won’t be able to see it in the dark. “Ha, yes, I can cook now,” Sylvain says, reading his reaction anyway. “What, did you think you were the only one allowed a glow-up?”

 _Glow-up?_ Felix thinks, bemused, but it’s quickly forgotten as he considers the offer. When it came to culinary skill, university had taught him nothing beyond how to make very decent instant noodles. The thought of Sylvain knowing his way around a kitchen has a strange appeal to it.

“Okay,” Felix agrees, and though he can barely see the outline of Sylvain’s features, he knows Sylvain is surprised.

Ever the smooth-talker, Sylvain recovers quickly. “You know what? I can’t see shit right now, give me your—” A shuffle of movement, and a hand bumps against his before closing around Felix’s wrist. “Right— okay. Cool. Let’s go.”

It makes him feel like a kid again to follow where Sylvain leads, but Felix finds he doesn’t mind all that much. Sylvain’s hand is warm where it links them, and as they make their way back past the church, down the stone steps, and along the road towards Sylvain’s apartment, Felix almost forgets the feeling of not belonging in this town.

Sylvain very conveniently neglects to inform his housemate that he’s bringing a guest over, and neglects to mention to Felix that his housemate is one Dimitri Blaiddyd.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, an odd strain in his voice as Felix enters the apartment behind Sylvain. He looks altogether like a different person— taller, broader, hair unkempt and falling past his chin, voice deeper.

“Dimitri,” Felix says, equally awkwardly, having originally intended to avoid Dimitri for as long as humanly possible, preferably until either one or both of them died.

Sylvain claps his hands together once, not even looking sorry. “I completely forgot,” he says, though of what exactly, Felix is unsure. He angles his nastiest glare at Sylvain. Behind him, he hears the sounds of Dimitri retreating to his room and shutting the door behind him.

“I’ll prepare dinner,” Sylvain announces with a laugh as Felix seethes. “In the meantime, make yourself at home.” He gestures around at the apartment as he makes his way towards what Felix assumes is the kitchen, half-turning back toward him with a wink. “Except for the bottom drawer of my dresser. Don’t look in there.” 

“I’ll open that first,” Felix assures him.

Sylvain shrugs, a knowing glint in his eye. “Suit yourself.”

Felix shakes his head in disbelief as Sylvain disappears into the kitchen. The apartment is small and passably neat, nothing out of the ordinary. Sylvain’s room is no different. There’s a collection of cologne bottles and a wooden chess set laid out on the dresser, but otherwise, the space looks like one any twenty-something might inhabit. For a moment, Felix considers looking under the bed for the kinds of objects that used to characterise teenage Sylvain’s room— a tube of lipstick belonging to a girl he’d brought home, a discarded piece of jewellery— but he decides he’s not feeling quite that masochistic yet. Instead, he makes good on his word and goes for the dresser.

The bottom drawer slides open easily. It’s filled not with magazines, as he had expected, but with neatly-folded piles of clothes. What looks like a slip of paper is tucked into the side of the pile; Felix reaches over and pulls it out. It’s a photo of the four of them when they were young— him, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Dimitri.

Felix doesn’t remember ever taking such a photo. He looks no older than six or seven in it, and each of them is standing in front of one of the statues of the Four Saints. Felix almost cracks a smile at the sight of himself as a child, gazing warily up at Saint Indech’s immaculately carved face. It seems like the kind of photo Dimitri’s dad would have had them pose for, for no other reason than he thought it would be funny.

How very like Sylvain to get sentimental over something like this.

Felix contemplates bringing the photo with him but decides against it, returning it to its place and closing the drawer before wandering back outside. A low sizzle draws him to the kitchen, where he finds Sylvain frying an assortment of meat and vegetables over the stove in a large pan. The rumble of his stomach is thankfully masked by the sound of crackling oil.

“Nice photo,” Felix comments, watching in fascination as Sylvain works. He’s rolled up his sleeves, exposing the well-defined muscles of his forearm as he handles the pan in one hand and moves food around with a spatula with the other. In the past, they’d all been equally reliant on Ingrid as their sole chef. Now, it seems Sylvain has upped his game, and Felix is reduced to thinking about how good he looks like this.

“You really looked, huh?” Sylvain laughs, startling Felix, until he remembers that they’re talking about the photo. “You know,” Sylvain continues, without looking away from the food. “You were the cutest kid. So innocent, always following me around, always crying—”

“Shut up,” Felix says. Well-versed in the art of conversing with Sylvain, he quickly changes the subject. “I’ve been back one day, and everyone’s been obsessed with feeding me.”

“Aren’t you lucky.” Sylvain plates the food, rummaging around in a drawer for utensils. “It’s because you’re like a stray cat. Brooding, grumpy, doesn’t like people, but kind of cute, you know? You just want it to eat something and be happy.” 

Felix snorts.

“Go,” Sylvain makes a shooing motion, spatula still in hand. “Eat and be happy.” They relocate outside to the table, Sylvain with the food, Felix with the cutlery.

“Oi, Dima!” Sylvain calls into the general vicinity of the hallway. “I made stir-fry, want some?”

There’s no way Sylvain doesn’t know that interacting with Dimitri is the last thing Felix wants to do, so he must be ignoring the fact. After several seconds, Dimitri emerges from his room, shuffling over to join them at the table. Felix keeps his eyes fixed on his food as he eats.

“So,” Sylvain says. “Now that you’re back, what are you gonna do?”

Felix doesn’t answer immediately, busy savouring the food. It’s good, much like the dish Ingrid had made him try at the diner. Not that Felix has the highest standards after two years of microwave dinners. But still.

In truth, he hadn’t thought about what he would do after coming home. Within a day, it’s become apparent that his friends have their own things going for them, something Felix gave up when he left Garreg Mach. But just like two years ago, his departure had been motivated solely by the need to get away. There is no plan.

He settles on a non-committal, “Don’t know,” before attempting to deflect the attention away from himself once again. “When did you move here?”

“Mmm,” Sylvain nudges Dimitri, who seems perfectly content to eat and not speak. “When did we? Sometime last year? Oh, it was in spring, when you started working at the bar and I needed a place because Miklan was being—” He stops talking suddenly, and Felix watches him, interest piqued.

“A colossal dick.” Sylvain finishes. “He was being a dick. Nothing new.” He runs a hand over his face, turning to look at Felix. “You haven’t heard yet, huh?”

“Heard what?” Felix asks, a slow unease beginning to unfurl inside of him. Few things faze Sylvain, least of all when they concern his brother. Felix’s only memories of Miklan are of the ill-tempered child who used to push them around when they were much smaller than him. Miklan was around Glenn’s age, but nothing like him. As far as Felix remembers, Sylvain isn’t even on speaking terms with Miklan.

Sylvain is silent for a while, throwing a hesitant glance at Dimitri before speaking. “Well. Miklan is, uh...”

“Dead,” Dimitri supplies, still not looking up. “We found his arm down in the tunnel.”

“His arm,” Felix stares. “Just his arm?”

“Just his arm.”

“When?” Felix asks, incredulous, forgetting he isn’t exactly on speaking terms with Dimitri. “What happened?”

Dimitri shrugs.

“That was... last month?” Sylvain says, eyes downcast. “Trust me, it’s one-hundred-percent as weird as you’re thinking. The town went nuts, but the cops haven’t figured out what happened to him yet.”

“Huh,” Felix says, trying to process the information. For your brother to disappear— _run away—_ was one thing. To find evidence that something terrible happened to him...

“That... sucks,” Felix says.

“Not really,” Sylvain says with a laugh, though it sounds forced. “He was a shitty person, anyway. The world is better off without him.”

They resume eating, the air tense between them. Felix thinks back to the patrolling resident they had encountered on the brief walk to the apartment. Had that been something new?

Sylvain is the first to break the silence.

“So, I was thinking, we should all get together, the four of us. We could go to the diner— wait, no, how about the old garage? We could meet there one weekend, with Ingrid, for old times’ sake. Like a band reunion.”

“Band?” Felix spears a piece of meat with his fork. “You still play?”

“Nah,” Sylvain shoots him a lopsided grin. “Can’t play without our bassist, right?”

“Of course not,” Felix says. “It’s pointless with just the four of us, right?”

He doesn’t quite mean it as a provocation. At the same time, it’s not an innocent remark, either. The words are bitter on his tongue, and Dimitri drops his fork to stand. Without looking at either of them, he turns on his heel and leaves the table.

“Dimitri, wait—” Sylvain calls, but the door to Dimitri’s room shuts with a click. 

Sylvain exhales, leans back in his seat. Felix says nothing, listens to the barely-audible _tick-tock-tick-tock_ of the clock.

When Sylvain speaks, his voice is soft. “Hey, Fe?”

The nickname turns something unpleasant in Felix’s stomach, guilt layered under something else. Felix isn’t sure where this anger is coming from, but it’s as if someone has ripped off the scab of a wound that never fully healed, with nothing to stem the fresh flow of blood.

“What,” Felix growls. “You want me to play nice? Let it go?”

“No, I just—”

But the expression on Sylvain’s face says it all, and Felix stands as well, unable to bear the thought of Sylvain taking Dimitri’s side over his.

“Felix, maybe we should talk about this—”

“Forget it,” Felix snaps. Two years he had spent away from home, keeping mostly to himself. Managing emotional conflict isn’t something he’s had practice with. So he defaults to what he does best in the face of something he would rather not deal with.

The air outside is cold, like a slap to the face after the warmth of the apartment. Felix does exactly as Dimitri had done, but it’s the front door that he slams behind him, with a bang that’s amplified on the empty street. He turns and walks in the direction of home, the air doing little to cool the resentment churning in his gut.

Sylvain doesn’t come after him.

_MISSING: Glenn Fraldarius (18) was last seen at dusk on July 17th, walking southward out of town towards Red Branch Bridge. He was wearing a dark green hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and carrying a black guitar case. If you have any information regarding his whereabouts, please contact the Fhirdiad Police Department immediately_.

Felix can hardly make out the words on the poster through the thick fog, but he’s read it enough times over the years to know it by heart. He finds himself standing in the middle of the street, the walkway leading downtown towards Sixth Avenue cordoned off. Felix remembers hearing about that on the local news— a tree had fallen during a storm in the middle of the night, obstructing the road. The worst weather Fhirdiad has seen in a decade.

So this must be the autumn after Glenn disappeared.

Felix looks around. Everything is shrouded in mist, making it difficult to tell where he is and where he’s going. Rodrigue had told him specifically not to leave the house, not even to go over to Sylvain’s. _I’ve already lost one son_ , he had said, the first time he had outwardly acknowledged this fact. _I won’t lose another_.

“Sylvain?” Felix calls, tentative. 

The sound is baritone, the voice of a twenty-year-old. Not the young teenager he’d been at the time. As if responding to his call, a shadow appears against the white, and Felix feels his shoulders sag in relief. But the person who emerges from the fog isn’t Sylvain but Dimitri, who walks up to Felix and hands him something. It’s one of Felix’s most prized possessions, dark blue surface polished and sleek. His bass.

Felix takes it from him.

“It’s pointless with just the four of us,” Dimitri says, and Felix hears: _The band needs Glenn. You aren’t enough_.

A familiar anger rises in Felix. “That’s bullshit,” he growls. “That’s just an excuse. You’re—”

The object in his hands feels different, and Felix looks down, confusion turning to horror when he sees the dismembered arm there, lifeless in his grip. He recognises the dark green sleeve immediately— it’s Glenn’s arm.

Felix drops it and takes a step back, a shout rising at the back of his throat like bile. What comes out of his mouth this time isn’t his own voice, but a girl’s. _Father_ , the familiar voice screams. _Father!_

With a jolt, Felix wakes up.

He’s in his bed, heart pounding in his chest, sweat making his t-shirt stick to his back. The time on his phone reads _4:41_ , and in his sleep-hazed panic he pulls up Sylvain’s contact before realising that there’s no way Sylvain will be awake at this hour, and even if he were, they haven’t talked since the night Felix walked out of his apartment.

He sinks back into bed, shutting his eyes and trying to calm himself. What happened to Miklan has nothing to do with Glenn. It can’t. But it’s difficult to ignore the phantom guilt that lingers in the wake of the nightmare, feather-light and pervasive. 

He imagines instead a happier memory, the first time he played his bass— not a hand-me-down from Glenn but his very own, placed under the small tree they put up for Christmas. Recalling is like watching the memory unfold through the broken shards of a mirror. Felix forces himself to breath evenly, thinking this time of nothing.

Eventually, sleep claims him.

It’s a miscalculation on Felix’s part that when he comes downstairs in the morning, Rodrigue is making coffee in the kitchen. Too late, Felix remembers it’s the weekend, and that normal adults— ones who don’t spend their time roaming around town, visiting their friends, and rediscovering childhood hangouts— don’t go to work on weekends.

“Felix,” Rodrigue says, surprised, as if he’d forgotten he had a son in the house with him. “How are you?”

“I _was_ fine,” Felix mutters, which is a lie. If Rodrigue hears him, he gives no indication. He gestures for Felix to join him at the table.

“Coffee?” Rodrigue asks. Felix declines with a shake of his head, not moving from his position at the foot of the stairs. Rodrigue takes a seat alone, giving Felix a long look over the rim of his mug. “Is everything okay?”

 _I’m back here after two years, with nothing to show for it_ , Felix wants to say. _What do you think?_ Somehow, he manages to hold his tongue. 

Rodrigue seems to choose his words with care. “You know, if there’s anything on your mind, I’m here to listen.”

It’s not patronising— in fact, it’s the opposite. It sounds like Rodrigue is trying very hard to be an understanding parent. Like he’s overcompensating for something. It pisses Felix off.

“You mean like you listened when Glenn said he wanted to do music?”

Rodrigue is silent. His tone, when he speaks, is tired but stern, the same he would use when he used to discover Glenn and Felix up past their bedtime, whispering to each other underneath the sheets.

“Felix,” Rodrigue says. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I’m not proud of what happened with your brother. But one day we’ll be able to look back on this, all three of us, and—”

“Glenn isn’t coming back,” Felix explodes. “What part of that do you not understand? It’s been six years and no one’s heard from him. _I_ haven’t heard from him.” Anger churns in the pit of his stomach, hot and unpleasant. “We don’t know where he is, we don’t even know if he’s alive. He never said goodbye. Imagine how much he must have _hated_ living in this house.”

“Felix,” Rodrigue says sharply.

“Glenn is _never_ coming back,” Felix spits, draws out each syllable so that Rodrigue might get it through his thick skull. “Stop living in denial.”

It had always felt like Glenn had taken a part of Felix with him the night he disappeared. Felix takes a deep breath, fighting to keep any unwanted memories from flooding back after years of shutting them out. Admitting that Glenn is gone hurts. Admitting that Glenn had secrets he didn’t tell Felix hurts more.

“Glenn was young,” Rodrigue says quietly. “As are you.”

Felix has had enough. He leaves before he hears another word, out the door and onto the street where the open sky feels less stifling, where he doesn’t have to look at Rodrigue’s face. Not for the first time, he wishes Glenn had taken him along when he had left.

He lets his feet carry him, unthinking, until the anger fades to a simmer.

The entrance to the underground trolley tunnel lies just past the post office. A flight of steps leads down to the platform, the only part of the underground rail system that remains open after the trolley bus stopped running several decades ago. This is where Felix ends up— staring at the large mural depicting the old mines, paint patchy and faded.

Even on the weekend, the tunnel is relatively quiet. There are customers lining up at the pierogi stand and a group of teenagers gathered at the other end, but the benches are unoccupied. Felix supposes there isn’t much reason to pass through— the tunnel stretches from the post-office into town, but the same distance can be easily covered above ground. Klaus often said that nostalgia was the only thing keeping this place open.

A familiar voice catches Felix’s attention, and he swivels around to look over at the pierogi stall. Sure enough, it’s Sylvain at the front of the line, the red of his hair unmistakeable. Against his better judgement, Felix makes his way over.

“—way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all. I swear, the pierogi tastes best when you’re the one who makes it. I wouldn’t come by on any other day.”

The girl behind the counter laughs, more incredulous than flattered. “That’ll be five dollars.”

Felix watches as Sylvain pauses, seeming to fumble for words. “Of course! The love and dedication you put into making these are priceless. But maybe, for your biggest fan, you’ll offer a special price?”

“Okay,” she says. “Six dollars.”

Felix snorts, closing the rest of the distance to the counter and pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. He slaps the payment down and glares at Sylvain.

Truthfully, this is more Ingrid’s department than his. _Damage control_ , she used to call it. _Cleaning up Sylvain’s messes_. After being away for two years, it seems Felix is no longer accustomed to Sylvain’s incessant flirting. He tries not to think about how it had grated on his nerves to see Sylvain bother this girl.

“Felix,” Sylvain says. For some reason, he sounds happy to see him, but his tone quickly turns to one of alarm as Felix starts to leave. “Hey, hey, wait up! I can explain.”

What _is_ there to explain? “You never change,” Felix tells him flatly.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Sylvain lowers his voice, still trailing after him. “I forgot my wallet, but I only found out right when I was supposed to pay, and I couldn’t exactly back out of that, right? So I was just trying to, you know...”

“Uh huh,” Felix says, uninterested in listening to his excuses.

“Thanks for, uh, helping me out.” Sylvain does seem oddly flustered that Felix had seen him. It’s not like Felix hadn’t grown up watching Sylvain flirt with girls every day.

Felix stops walking, turning to face Sylvain. He still has to tilt his head up slightly to look Sylvain in the eye, which is annoying. “What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have, I don’t know, a date or something?”

Sylvain puts both hands up in surrender, one of them still grasping the small paper bag of pierogies. “I was buying food, is what I was doing. Also, I don’t do that dating thing anymore. What are _you_ doing here?”

Felix clicks his tongue, turning from Sylvain again so that he doesn’t have to answer. _I don’t do that dating thing anymore._ Felix can’t possibly be blamed for not believing a claim like that.

“Let me guess,” Sylvain says. “You were walking around aimlessly, and somehow you ended up here. Probably because I mentioned it the other night. So you decided to come through, especially since you haven’t in a while, and then you heard my voice and thought, _oh! It’s Sylvain!_ ” Here, he pitches his voice slightly higher than usual. Felix turns to give him a warning look. “And then, because you knew I was— wait, no, because you _missed me_ and wanted to see my face, you couldn’t help but to—”

Felix cuts Sylvain off with a strike to the shoulder, hard enough that Sylvain doubles over, clutching his arm.

“Oh my god,” Sylvain says, sounding like he’s in pain, but also trying very hard not to laugh. “You’re still cute when you’re angry.”

Sylvain makes a noise between a wheeze and a chuckle as Felix contemplates going for somewhere more debilitating next.

“By the way,” Sylvain says, straightening up suddenly as if remembering something, his expression sober. “Sorry about the other night.”

Felix had thought this might not come up, especially since they were already conversing as though Felix hadn’t stormed out of Sylvain’s apartment the other day, after Sylvain had been nice enough to make him dinner. He had kind of hoped it wouldn’t come up.

“Why are you apologising?” Felix asks. “Shouldn’t I be the one apologising?”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “ _Are_ you apologising?”

“No,” Felix answers.

Sylvain laughs. “That’s what I thought.”

Just like that, it feels like he’s forgiven. Sylvain has always been good at accommodating his friends— Dimitri needs moral support when making a decision, according to him. Ingrid wants accountability. Felix isn’t sure what his own needs are, but it seems like Sylvain does.

He’s not sure who looks out for Sylvain this way, now or in the past. Certainly not his parents. Certainly not Miklan. 

“Pierogi?” Sylvain offers, holding out the bag. Felix has no intention of sitting for a chat, but at Sylvain’s insistence, they move such that they’re not obstructing the walkway. “So, what _is_ on your mind?” Sylvain asks.

Felix has to tear his eyes away from the sharp line of Sylvain’s jaw as he chews his food. He shrugs. “Nothing much. My dad acting like this is all just temporary again. Like Glenn will just waltz through the door one day, in time for dinner.”

“You don’t think so?”

Felix hesitates, turns the thought over in his mind like he’d done countless times before. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s weird. Glenn told me everything. He told me if he liked someone. If he hated someone. He told me he was going to be a singer, even if it meant going against our dad. If he was planning to get out of Fhirdiad, he had no reason not to—” He stops, breathes out slowly. “It’s weird.”

Sylvain nods in understanding. It’s weird to be able to confide in him like this, too. When they were younger, Sylvain would look out for him much like Glenn did, almost a complete one-eighty from the teenage Sylvain who never took anything seriously, who spent all of his time messing around with girls.This feels like yet another version of Sylvain, one with his old compassion, the same carefree attitude, a new sincerity. When he laughs, it reminds Felix of the warmest fire at the height of Fhirdiad’s coldest winter. 

This Sylvain is out of reach, just as he had always been.

When Sylvain meets his eye, a question in them, Felix has to look away.

“Hey, Felix?” Sylvain says after a stretch of silence, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you—”

But Felix doesn’t find out what Sylvain has been wanting to tell him, because there’s a sudden movement behind him, and Felix’s reflexes kick in. He reaches for the person behind him, grabs their arm and twists, finding himself face-to-face with a teenager who can’t be more than a few years younger than him. The boy is holding Felix’s wallet between his fingers.

“Really?” Sylvain says in disbelief, as Felix tightens his grip on the boy’s wrist, reaching out with his other hand to retrieve his wallet. “Talk about picking a bad target,” Sylvain leans over to rest a casual hand on Felix’s shoulder, addressing the boy. “You know, Felix here has a sharp ear. He once yelled at me for a conversation I had with a girl like, two blocks away. _Comparing a girl to—_ what was it?— _to a flower is the dumbest fucking compliment I’ve ever heard_ , something like that. Not the best person to try and sneak up on.”

“Can you not,” Felix mutters.

“What? It’s true.”

Felix elbows him, taking pleasure in the way Sylvain yelps. “It’s because you use the exact same pickup lines every time.”

The boy’s eyes flit between them, eyes widening as they come to rest on Felix. But it’s not Sylvain’s story that seems to have captivated him. “Felix,” the boy says, eyes widening. “You’re Felix Fraldarius.”

Felix frowns. “How do you…”

“Everyone knows you,” the boy blurts. “At least, everyone my age does. It was a big deal among middle schoolers at the time. You beat up the mayor’s son.”

Felix freezes, his grip on the boy’s wrist slackening. The boy wrenches his arm back with a wince, but makes no move to leave.

“Hey, kid,” Sylvain interrupts, the humour gone from his voice. “There are a lot of patrols going on these days. You should try to stay out of trouble.”

“What else did you take?” Felix asks, trying to keep his voice even. “And from who?”

“Nothing,” the boy says sulkily. “Just you. He’s not even carrying a wallet.” He throws a sour look at Sylvain before turning and disappearing down the opposite end of the tunnel, his footsteps hardly making a sound against the gravel.

Sylvain lets out a low whistle as they watch his retreating form. “Man, kids these days are _bold_. Sure dredges up some unpleasant memories, huh?”

Felix can barely find it in himself to respond. _Everyone knows you,_ the boy had said. _You beat up the mayor’s son._

“Maybe it’s Dimitri you should be apologising to,” Sylvain murmurs, as if thinking aloud. Eventually, Sylvain nudges his shoulder gently with his own. “Hey. Let’s get out of here?”

“You really did forget your wallet,” Felix says.

“Of course,” Sylvain replies lightly. “Would I lie to you?”

The answer to that two years ago would have been an easy _yes_ , but Felix is no longer sure he knows everything there is to know about Sylvain. It weighs on his mind long after they leave the tunnel, and it’s only when he’s in his house, treading with light footsteps past the unoccupied room next to his out of habit, that he realises he never found out what it was that Sylvain had been wanting to tell him.

The next few weeks pass uneventfully. Felix spends his days reacquainting himself with different parts of town, sometimes visiting Sylvain’s workplace on Fifth Avenue, a clothing store by the name of _Royal Blue_ that caters to women of all ages.

There, Sylvain is paid to do what he does best— compliment girls, make pointless small talk, and convince potential customers that their life would be much improved with the purchase of the latest wool crepe turtleneck or fleece peacoat. As mundane as it is to watch Sylvain sweet-talk women all day, there’s something fascinating about how good he is at what he does. The shop is always filled with giggles, and Sylvain makes recommendations with precision and care. After a few visits, Felix catches himself staring at one of the racks, wondering if a peacoat would enhance _his_ life too.

It’s dark by the time Sylvain gets off work. “Aw, were you waiting for me?” he asks in a teasing tone as he sees Felix hovering by the entrance, arms crossed.

Felix glares. “Like I have anything better to do.” He waits as Sylvain locks up the shop, then falls into step beside him so that they can head up the street together.

“Let’s go to Ingrid’s,” Sylvain suggests. “I’m _starving_.”

Felix doesn’t protest, jamming his hands into his pockets to protect against the cold. Ingrid had seemed distant the last few times he had visited the diner in the day, barely sparing him a glance, words clipped and terse. She hadn’t stuck around to chat with him, even though the place hadn’t seemed particularly busy.

The diner is no more crowded than usual tonight, with most tables already served at this hour. Felix isn’t sure if he imagines it, but Ingrid’s smile seems to falter as she catches sight of them. They follow her to an empty booth, where she lays out menus on the table.

“Give me a shout when you’re ready to order,” she says curtly, before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

“Is she okay?” Felix mutters as Sylvain grabs a menu and starts flipping through it eagerly. Sylvain is usually the first to notice if anyone is in a bad mood, so if he hasn’t said anything, Felix is probably overthinking. Felix watches Ingrid carefully when she takes their orders, declining Sylvain’s offer to eat with them, rolling her eyes when he laments that she no longer has time for them. The same as usual, as far as Felix can tell.

“Hey,” Felix says to Sylvain, an unrelated thought springing to mind as they wait for their food. “There was something you wanted to tell me. The other day in the tunnel.”

Sylvain looks at him, the question taking a few seconds to register. “Ah, that.” His eyes dart around, as if to assess whether anyone is within hearing range. Felix frowns, even more curious than before, but Sylvain doesn’t say anything more.

“Well?” Felix demands.

“Nothing,” Sylvain says, leaning back in his seat. He runs a hand through his hair, gaze averted. “It’s not important.”

Felix decides not to press it. Sylvain can be stubborn when he chooses to be, and Felix isn’t in the mood to get into an argument.

Before long, Ingrid comes with their food and an extra plate of chilli nachos on the house. This time, Sylvain is prepared to make her stay. 

“So there’s going to be a party this Friday,” he declares, with the gravitas of one announcing the unveiling of a new town monument, or maybe his own wedding. Felix tries not to dwell too long on the latter. “One of those big parties, somewhere on Second Avenue. Ingrid, would you care to join us?”

Ingrid puts a hand on her hip. “You mean, would I like to drive, so you can drink?”

“You wound me,” Sylvain says. “I highly value your company, and that includes your scathing commentary on absolutely everything. Also, you’re our voice of reason. How will I avoid getting shitfaced drunk if you’re not there to stop me?”

“Felix can stop you,” Ingrid says.

Felix looks between them, eyebrow raised. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No,” Ingrid and Sylvain say at the same time.

“Come on, Felix,” Sylvain reaches across the table and grabs his hand, holding it between his own. Next to him, Ingrid sighs audibly. Sylvain pays her no mind. “When was the last time we went to a party together? It’ll be fun!”

Felix hates parties. Alcohol, loud music, and large volumes of people are things he might be able to deal with individually, but when combined, resemble something out of his worst nightmare. Socialising really isn’t his thing. At the last party he’d been to at university, a kid with dyed blue hair had thrown up all over his shoes.

And yet, Sylvain holding onto his hand like that is pretty fucking distracting, because Sylvain’s hand is unreasonably warm and calloused in the way someone’s who played the guitar for years would be. It impairs Felix’s ability to think rationally.

“Fine,” Felix mutters. “But just this once.”

Ingrid looks like she has something to say to that, but keeps her mouth shut. Felix tries not to think about how much she knows, and tries not to feel disappointed when Sylvain releases his hand with a triumphant whoop.

It’s not like he has somewhere else to be on a Friday night, and he’ll have Sylvain and Ingrid with him at the party. So it might be okay, Felix tells himself. He might not regret going along with this.

Within fifteen minutes of arriving at the party, Felix regrets going along with this.

For one, he hadn’t been informed that Dimitri would be invited. When Ingrid pulled up outside his place it had been with not one, but two others in the car, and Dimitri’s awkward nod as Felix climbed into the backseat had filled him with abject irritation. Sylvain’s several-weeks-old comment about apologising to Dimitri nibbled at Felix’s consciousness as he stared resolutely out the window. The ten-minute ride felt like ten hours.

The second reason is that there are more people at this party than Felix had expected, and way more who remember him than he’s strictly comfortable with. Felix finds himself dodging questions about how he’s doing and how long he’ll be back almost as soon as he walks through the door— once from an over-friendly ex-classmate, and the second time from a young employee at the hardware store whose name Felix has forgotten. His one saving grace is that Sylvain seems to pick up on his reluctance and helps turn conversations around to distract them, or otherwise give Felix an opportunity to escape.

Which brings him to the third reason. Sylvain is wearing a black button-down that accentuates his shoulders and a pair of tight-fit jeans, and looks altogether more effortlessly hot than should be allowed at some dumb party. Felix knows, realistically, that this assessment isn’t entirely true— Sylvain used to spend an hour in the bathroom styling his hair when they were in high school— but it doesn’t take away from the fact that Felix is going to need way more than a plastic cup of vodka to help him get through tonight.

With the party in full swing, Sylvain returns from talking to yet another group of girls to rejoin him, Ingrid, and Dimitri. He slings an arm around Felix’s shoulders, close enough that Felix can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“I just talked to Lucy,” Sylvain announces to them, cheeks already flushed from his second, maybe third drink. “Remember her? She was in my year, worked at the library after high school. She’s getting _married_ next spring. Kind of crazy, huh?”

Ingrid and Dimitri murmur in agreement. Felix resists the urge to shrug Sylvain off, instead opting to take a sip of the drink he had grudgingly accepted from Dimitri earlier.

“Man, it’s been so long since we got to hang out together like this,” Sylvain continues, pleasantly buzzed. “This is great. This is really great. What’s up, guys?”

“Old Alberta asked me if we’d like to play for the church again,” Dimitri says. At the questioning looks he receives, he elaborates: “Their regular pianist injured his wrist. They’ve been using pre-recorded music the last few weeks.”

“Huh,” Sylvain says. “Sure. I mean, why not?”

Ingrid seems more hesitant, glancing over at Felix before answering. “I don’t know. It’s been a while, but it could be nice? I didn’t think they would still remember us.”

“I’m in,” says Sylvain.

“I’m not,” says Felix. “I don’t play anymore.”

A lie— Felix had, in fact, been playing up until a month ago, but his friends don’t need to know that. And even if he _could_ play with them, attending church service is something of the past, something Felix stopped doing years ago once the pastor’s words started sounding less like divine wisdom and more like a load of bullshit.

Interestingly, Sylvain had been the first of them to stop going to church. _It feels so fake,_ Felix remembers him saying, during a rare serious conversation. _When Father Jacobson talks to you, it’s as if he’s looking right through you. Like you’re not even a person. I have no idea how the church gets so many donors with him in charge._ Sylvain had sighed wistfully. _I’ll miss seeing the girls every week, though._

In the present, Sylvain gives his shoulder a light shake, and this time Felix does shrug him off, stepping away so that Sylvain can’t lean on him. Something restless is beginning to spread through him, and Felix forces the feeling down.

“We’re all out of practice,” Sylvain reasons, voice loud over the steady thrum of music. “We can work on it together, get back into the swing of things. No need to worry, Fe.”

“I’m not going back,” Felix says. With luck, it will sound like the church is the real reason behind his refusal. “Count me out.”

He tries not to falter under the combined force of Sylvain and Ingrid’s gazes, but Dimitri merely shrugs. “Ah, well, then. I guess I’ll tell her no.”

Felix knocks back his drink in one go. The last thing he needs, on top of everything else, is to have to think about playing bass again.

The music only seems to get louder and the smell of sweat in the air more nauseating as the night goes on; they eventually split up, with Sylvain leaving to catch up with people, Dimitri going God-knows-where, and Felix refusing to leave Ingrid’s side for anything other than to refill his cup.

He can still see Sylvain through the gaps between people dancing and mingling, at the opposite end of the room talking to yet another girl. Sylvain throws his head back and laughs, and it reminds Felix of high school, when Felix went through a phase of hating Sylvain’s smile just because it was always directed at someone else. It had been hard enough to ignore his feelings when he could convince himself that everything out of Sylvain’s mouth was disingenuous, and that all he ever thought about was wooing girls. Now that this no longer seems to be the case, they’re even harder to ignore.

He can’t hear what Sylvain is saying, but he wants— what does he want? Felix has lost count of how many drinks he’s had by this point, but the ache in his chest grows more bearable with each. As he returns with another refill, Ingrid all but pries his cup out of his hand.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” she says, lips pursed.

“I do,” Felix mumbles, making a weak grab for his cup. He _does_ talk to Sylvain. He talks to him almost every day, these days. Sylvain might be the only person Felix trusts whole-heartedly, the only person he doesn’t feel like he owes something.

Ingrid transfers Felix’s cup to her other hand, holds it out of his reach. Felix reaches across her to lunge for it, the action jerky and uncoordinated. For a moment, they end up face-to-face, mere centimetres apart.

“Oh Felix,” Ingrid whispers, words almost lost to the music. Felix is close enough to see the shadows under her sad eyes, the crease between her eyebrows. “You were doing so well. Why did you come back?”

“Because,” Felix starts, but the words get caught in his throat. He withdraws his hand as if burned, takes a step back to put some space between them. Ingrid is watching his movement with her eyes. Waiting.

He hasn’t told anyone yet.

“Because I hurt someone,” Felix mumbles. “Again.”

He isn’t sure she hears him, but Ingrid’s eyes go wide. And there it is— the truth laid bare in front of him, something he can’t take back. He had hoped the admission might bring him some relief, but instead, it’s an overwhelming sense of guilt that rises to meet him.

“Felix,” Ingrid says, hushed. “That’s—”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Felix says. There’s something unreadable in Ingrid’s expression— Felix can’t tell what it is, just knows that he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want her pity. Alcohol has eroded any remaining self-control he had, and his next words come spilling out, unfiltered. “You have the diner. You have your family. Everything always goes well for you— you’ve never had to worry about having a future. So don’t pretend you know how I feel.”

His voice is raised, and he watches her whole body go rigid, her face close off.

For a while, he hears nothing but the sound of bass-heavy reverberations in the enclosed space of the room, muted chatter.

“I’m leaving,” Ingrid says tonelessly, looking anywhere but at him. “I’ll tell Dimitri to make sure you two get home safe.”

And then she’s gone.

Felix doesn’t move for a long time. When he does, it’s to get another drink, to drown everything out with bitter liquid that burns going down his throat. He never drank much at university parties, afraid of what he might do, but that restraint seems pointless now, since he’s managed to fuck this up anyway.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, near enough to the drinks table to walk over easily, far enough to the side of the room that no one will try to talk to him.

“Felix,” says a voice against his ear, and Felix might have jumped if his reaction time weren’t so sluggish. Sylvain throws his arm around him once again, smelling of alcohol and a hint of perfume, the force of his weight nearly making Felix stumble. He’s too close, leaning casually into Felix’s personal space.

“Felix,” Sylvain says again, eyes sparkling. The plastic cup in Felix’s hand crumples slightly in his grip. “Dance with me. Come on.”

Felix doesn’t remember much of what happens after that. He doesn’t know if he joins Sylvain on the dance floor. All he remembers is a want so strong that every inch of him burns with it, and a self-loathing so deep that it’s hard to look Sylvain in the eye.

“You guys are so drunk,” Dimitri mutters, voice clear above the noise. Dimitri, who Felix still pretends to be angry with. A hand is on Felix’s shoulder, steering him in some direction. Felix walks, the haze in his mind too thick for him to do anything but.

He’s sitting in the back of a taxi, Sylvain in the seat next to him. Dimitri rattles off an unfamiliar address and the car door slams shut from the outside. The vehicle begins to move, lights outside leaving long streaks of white against the night sky, Dimitri-shaped figure receding into the distance.

“Guess it’s just the two of us now,” Sylvain says with a laugh. He has such a fucking attractive laugh, it’s so unfair. He doesn’t even use it right.

Felix doesn’t remember the ride, nor does he remember getting out of the taxi. Somehow, they end up outside Sylvain’s apartment. Felix waits as Sylvain struggles with the keys, turning to him after several unsuccessful attempts at jamming it into the keyhole. “We’re gonna have to sleep out here tonight,” he giggles ruefully. “I can’t open my fucking door.”

Felix shoves him aside to try, hands clumsy, managing by some miracle to get the door open. They stumble into the apartment, Sylvain going for the lights and turning on the one in the hallway. It’s enough for them to avoid colliding with the couch on their way in.

“Made it,” Sylvain breathes, his profile outlined against the pale light. He turns to look at Felix, and everything goes still. Felix doesn’t move, entranced by the way Sylvain’s hair falls messily over his forehead, the way his lips curve upwards in a grin.

Felix wants to kiss him.

He wants—

Sylvain’s shirt is tossed to the floor as he pulls Felix in.

Felix doesn’t remember who had taken the first step towards the other, just that they were kissing, deep and messy, separating only for Sylvain to get his shirt off as Felix struggled to catch his breath. Sylvain tastes like alcohol, mouth hungry against his, the familiar scent of his cologne making Felix’s head spin.

Felix has dreamt about this more times than he would like to admit. He’s probably dreaming now, too. He had _way_ too much to drink at the party and can’t focus on one single thought, whether from the alcohol or because of the way Sylvain nips at his lower lip, drawing from Felix a small, needy sound that he’d be embarrassed about under any other circumstances.

Sylvain’s hands are gripping his waist so hard they’re sure to leave bruises. Felix is so turned on he doesn’t care. He has both hands on the back of Sylvain’s neck, trying to draw him closer than he already is, flush against him. As they kiss, Sylvain’s hand comes up to yank the elastic from Felix’s ponytail, releasing a tumble of dark hair.

“Sylvain,” Felix pants into his mouth, heat pooling low in his gut.

Sylvain cards his hand through Felix’s hair and tugs, angles his head to kiss him deeper. The air between them is hot, Felix’s entire world reduced to the sting of his scalp and the slide of Sylvain’s tongue against his.

Sylvain pulls back to breathe against his skin, voice ragged. “Felix, you’re— you’re so—”

Felix throws his head back, moans, falls harder. 

It takes no more than a few seconds, upon opening his eyes, for Felix to realise he’s completely and utterly _fucked_.

 _Both literally and figuratively,_ is the kind of joke Sylvain would crack here. Except it’s the worst possible time to think of what joke Sylvain would crack, because Sylvain is the one lying next to him in bed, in what looks like Sylvain’s room, and _neither of them is wearing any clothes._ The first thing Felix does is pinch himself, hard, which— now he’s about to have a bruised arm, in addition to still being completely and utterly fucked.

He forces himself to breathe, tries to recall last night around the persistent throbbing in his head. He remembers the party, of course. He remembers Ingrid getting mad at him. He remembers being in a taxi with Sylvain.

Everything beyond that is murky. The heat of Sylvain’s touch. Dizzying, open-mouthed kisses. Sylvain’s breath hot against the shell of his ear, whispering _Felix, you’re so—_

So what?

So desperate for affection? So obviously in love with him? So not a girl?

“Fuck,” Felix mutters aloud, pushing hair out of his face. It’s tangled and getting in his eyes, but the elastic he uses to keep it up is nowhere in sight. Sylvain is asleep facing the wall, the muscles of his back shifting minutely with every rise and fall of his chest. There are fresh, angry red scratches near his shoulders— did Felix do that?

He swallows. He has to get out of here. Nothing good will come of him being around when Sylvain wakes up. He doesn’t even want to think about how awkward that will be— Sylvain might have to laugh this whole thing off, or worse, tell him this was a mistake. Isn’t Sylvain straight? Maybe he’ll treat him like he does the countless girls he brings home: let him down gently, all honeyed words and lies. _Felix, I think you’re great, you’re the only guy I would ever think of doing this with, but this just isn’t going to work out_. 

Felix feels sick. He crawls out of bed, slowly, a small shiver running through him as the air meets his bare skin and his feet touch the floor. He’s sore. He’s so sore and so, so stupid.

He finds his jeans at the foot of the bed and searches his pockets, hoping to find an elastic but coming up empty. Of course he didn’t have the foresight to carry a spare. If he had any foresight at all, he wouldn’t be naked in the middle of Sylvain’s room having a mental breakdown right now.

He dresses quickly, managing to locate everything except for his shirt, which he resolves by grabbing the first sweater he finds in Sylvain’s dresser. It’s too big for him (and _smells_ like Sylvain, which is an entirely different problem he’ll save for later), but it will have to do.

The rest of the apartment is silent, and as Felix shuffles towards the front door he catches sight of Sylvain’s discarded shirt on the floor. He can’t even picture what Sylvain looked like last night, he realises, which is just the cherry on top of the worst morning-after experience ever. The few casual hookups he’d had at university were nothing like this— but then, he supposes those didn’t involve nearly as much alcohol, or actual feelings on his part.

 _You’re being ridiculous_ , he thinks. _It’s not a big deal._

Except that when Sylvain is involved, it kind of is.

Felix is entertaining the absurd thought of trying to retrace his steps from last night when he hears the sound of a lock clicking. The next second, the front door is pulled open from the outside, and Dimitri is standing in the doorway.

Time stops as they make eye contact. Dimitri is wearing the same clothes he was wearing at the party, which probably means he didn’t come home last night. A good thing.

Felix doesn’t know what he looks like right now, and doesn’t care to. It must be bad, because Dimitri takes one look at him and retreats backwards, shutting the door again.

For one heart-stopping moment, Felix is mortified. Then he springs into action, grabs his coat from where it lies crumpled by the door and rushes outside.

It takes more effort than he anticipates chasing Dimitri down, not only because Dimitri walks stupidly fast, but also because Felix is hurting in places he doesn’t usually hurt in. They’re at the end of the street before Dimitri is within hearing range.

“Hey,” Felix calls, voice coming out scratchy. Great. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey, wait up.”

Dimitri stops walking. “Yes, Felix?”

Felix can’t remember the last time he voluntarily started a conversation with Dimitri. Now that he’s here, he’s not even sure what he had wanted to say.

Dimitri speaks first.

“Your relationship with Sylvain isn’t any of my business,” he says stiffly. “I... won’t tell anyone, if that’s your concern.”

“It isn’t. Wasn’t.” Fuck. This whole thing really is making Felix lose it. He decides to ask the question that’s bothering him, even if he’s afraid to know the answer. “Hey, uh. How many girls has Sylvain brought home in the last... I don’t know. Recently?”

A pause. “None,” Dimitri says slowly.

Dimitri is the worst liar in the world. In middle school, the four of them made a hobby of throwing stones at the window of a church-goer who took joy in filing rowdiness complaints against children in his neighbourhood. When they were eventually caught, Dimitri was the only one who confessed, even though they had all agreed to feign their innocence.

(He also informed the town council that the church-goer was in possession of an illegal firearm, which he had spotted through the window, because he’s more observant than most give him credit for.)

Dimitri doesn’t sound like he’s lying right now, which means whatever he’s claiming is probably true.

“How many,” Felix takes a second to gather his wits, the pressure in his head growing with every word out of his mouth. “How many guys has Sylvain brought home?”

A longer pause this time. “None,” Dimitri answers.

“Okay,” Felix says, trying to make sense of the new information, unsure of what he had expected or hoped to hear. It’s unusually cold out, and he clenches his fists behind his back to stop the way they’re trembling. “That’s— okay.”

Dimitri turns, finally, to look at him. He’s frowning, as though he’s figured something out. Felix wishes he would share, because he has no fucking clue what it could be.

“You know,” Dimitri says, voice low. “You don’t have to be nice to me. But Sylvain really cares about you.”

Obviously. Felix cares about Sylvain too. But it’s not the same when Sylvain has so much less to lose. Felix had hoped to forget his feelings for him when he left Fhirdiad, had returned only to find that they were stronger than ever. Somehow, after not talking for two years, they had managed to fall back into their old patterns of easy company and familiar banter. Things were fine. They were _good_. And now Felix has ruined everything.

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Felix snaps, on instinct. “It’s none of your damn business.”

Dimitri continues to stare at him, expression unreadable. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something. But then his shoulder brushes Felix’s as he walks past him, back in the direction of his apartment.

The sound of his footsteps gradually fades into the distance, and then Felix is left standing in the middle of the street, well and truly alone.

Felix was fourteen when Glenn disappeared.

He wishes he could say that something hadn’t felt quite right that day, or that Glenn had been acting strangely in the weeks leading up to it. But the truth is that Felix had never been good at picking up on such nuances— that was something Glenn had always been better at. He remembers asking Glenn about the new song he had written over breakfast, in a hushed voice so as not to be overheard by Rodrigue, who was in the next room and got grouchy whenever Glenn spoke at length about music. Everything had seemed fine. Normal. And then that night, Glenn didn’t come home for dinner.

Nor did he the next night. Or the next.

The news that Glenn Fraldarius had run away from home shocked many. Glenn was well-liked despite having a penchant for causing trouble, the kind of kid who would skip classes but still get good enough grades that his teachers couldn’t complain. He was a bright kid, Felix overheard the adults saying. A good kid. It was unthinkable that he would do this to his family; Glenn hadn’t said goodbye to Felix, hadn’t even left him a note.

Rodrigue put up posters, desperate to find someone who might know something, but the facts were clear: Glenn hadn’t wanted to take over Rodrigue’s auto repair business. He had disappeared and taken his guitar with him. The brief search by local authorities had seemed perfunctory and didn’t extend remotely close to Enbarr, the city that Glenn had once told Felix, after a practice session that had gone particularly well, that he one day dreamed of performing in. Felix had tried telling this to the officer who questioned him, but they seemed uninterested in spending time tracking down someone who probably didn’t want to be found.

And so life went on. Felix had no choice but to get used to no longer having the brother he looked up to, shared laughs with, and sought for advice. Six years passed, leaving him with secrets he had no one to tell, and an anger he had no outlet for.

“Felix?” comes Rodrigue’s voice from the kitchen as Felix enters through the front door, hangs his coat, walks up the stairs. “Felix, you’re back. Are you—”

Felix reaches the top of the stairs. Stops outside the first door, instead of the second. Turns the handle, goes inside. Closes the door and goes to sit at the foot of Glenn’s bed, like he used to when he was young.

Felix draws his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees, exhales shakily.

“Glenn,” he whispers. “I fucked up so bad.”

Glenn’s room looks exactly as it had before he disappeared. Rodrigue had left everything intact, including the shelf of records Glenn collected and the posters decorating his walls with his favourite bands— Harpstring, Thunderbrand, Pegasus Co. Every surface in the room has been meticulously dusted.

“I fucked up so bad, I— I don’t know if I can talk to Sylvain again,” Felix continues. “Because he probably knows. Even though I tried really hard—” His voice breaks and he stops talking, cheeks burning. Humiliatingly, he finds himself on the verge of tears.

It isn’t enough to _try—_ Felix knows this all too well by now. He had tried to understand what Dimitri was going through when he lost his father to that car accident in high school. He had tried to make something of himself at Garreg Mach, to cherish the one person he considered a true friend there. He had tried to make sure Sylvain never found out about his feelings, so that nothing would have to change between them. So that, at the very least, Sylvain would be there.

But he had failed. He hasn’t had a proper conversation with Dimitri in years, and even Ingrid is mad at him now. He left Garreg Mach and hasn’t turned on his phone in weeks, just so that he won’t have to see all the unread texts and missed calls he knows will be there. Glenn is gone. He can’t talk to Sylvain, either. He keeps losing the people he cares about, making the same mistakes over and over. Something about him drives people away.

Felix squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forehead against his knees, tired and defeated and _lonely_.

He sits for a long time. At some point, he hears the sound of Rodrigue’s footsteps outside, walking past Glenn’s door to knock on his. “Here if you want to talk,” comes the muffled offer, and Felix doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to talk to his father. He just wants the hurt to go away. He wants to forget how it had felt to have Sylvain’s mouth against his, to have Sylvain _hold_ him.

Eventually, the squeeze in his chest fades to a dull ache.

It feels like hours before Felix climbs to his feet, taking a final glance around at the space that once belonged to his brother. During the summer break of his first year at Garreg Mach, Felix had taken a trip to Enbarr. It had been everything he imagined it to be— flashy and loud, with people everywhere and multi-coloured billboards as far as the eye could see. It had been overwhelming. Felix spent days searching, even paying a visit to the famed Mittelfrank Opera House. He stopped to listen to every busker playing on a street corner.

But the city was expensive, and Felix’s savings ran out after several weeks, forcing him to return to Garreg Mach empty-handed. His only consolation was that if Enbarr was truly where Glenn had ended up, he probably loved it there. 

As he crosses Glenn’s room, Felix avoids looking at the empty space next to the dresser where Glenn used to prop his guitar, eyes settling on the dark wood of the dresser itself. He thinks of the photo Sylvain keeps in his bottom drawer, wonders if Glenn kept a memory of them too.

As if compelled by some unseen force, Felix finds himself walking over to the dresser. He crouches down, reaches out to pull open the bottom drawer.

The wood panel slides forward a fraction before stopping. The drawer is locked.

Felix withdraws his hand, unsure of what to make of this. Glenn wasn’t a secretive person by any stretch of the imagination. He had told Felix about the girl in his class he thought was pretty, even a boy at church he took a liking to for several years after that. He spoke openly of his dreams, even though he knew Rodrigue was against them. He left scraps of paper with song lyrics he had written lying around the house. For the longest time, Felix had believed he knew everything there was to know about Glenn because Glenn was so honest, sometimes to the point of being blunt.

Felix stares at the drawer, mind racing. It can’t even be dirty magazines or anything most people would consider embarrassing in there, because Glenn kept those— Felix goes to check the second drawer of Glenn’s bedside table, and— yeah.

So what did Glenn have to hide?

A part of his mind, the part exhausted and desperate to think about anything other than Sylvain, latches onto this mystery. But the only clues Felix has are the locked drawer in front of him, and the nagging thought that perhaps he didn’t know Glenn as well as he thought he did. After all, Glenn’s disappearance had come as a complete shock to him. He would never have believed that Glenn would leave without saying anything to him.

It’s with this in mind that Felix retreats reluctantly to his room, unease heavy in his chest.

Days pass. After he grows tired of paging through old sheet music in his room, Felix ventures out into town, a safe distance from Fifth Avenue. He spends some time browsing at the one music store, then several afternoons visiting places Glenn used to take him to, like the bakery run by two middle-aged ladies that specialised in pumpkin bread, and the second-hand bookstore tucked away on a small side road off Third Avenue.

He still hasn’t talked to Sylvain since the incident. He probably should, but just the thought of facing Sylvain fills him with dread. Calling would alleviate some of the potential awkwardness, but the only thing worse than turning on his phone to see a barrage of texts from Sylvain would be to turn it on and find no texts at all, and so Felix’s phone remains face-down on his desk, screen blank. 

The evening marking a week since the party, Felix slings his guitar case over his back and heads to Red Branch Bridge. The bridge is right at the edge of Fhirdiad, past the old pizza parlour and a short distance from the woods; it’s built over the lake running along the periphery, with just enough space for two people to walk side-by-side across it.

At the height of autumn, everything is painted in hues of orange. The trees, the leaves drifting on the surface of the water, the wood bathed in light. Felix makes his way to the middle of the bridge and looks down at the sun’s reflection, wavering on the lake’s surface. His fingers itch to take out his bass and play a few chords— he’s not even sure why he brought it with him.

As he observes the view, toying wistfully with the zipper of his case, he hears the sound of someone calling his name.

“Felix!”

It’s Ingrid, a small figure in the distance, coming towards him at a jog. The path she’s on is the same he’d taken from town, so she must have come from the diner— her complexion is pale, and Felix waits, perplexed, as she grows closer and closer. When she finally reaches the edge of the bridge, she doubles over, out of breath.

“Felix,” she gasps, raising her head to look at him, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” 

Felix stares at her.

Her words come out in a rush. “Someone at the diner said they saw you walking this way, carrying your—” She gestures to his guitar case. “Your case with you. And I, I just thought—” She looks at him imploringly, blonde hair falling haphazardly over her face.

It clicks, then. What she’d been thinking hadn’t crossed his mind, and Felix’s next words come out more defensive than intended.

“I wasn’t going anywhere. I was just...” he trails off, unsure of how to explain what he’s doing here. “I just... wanted to come here.”

“Okay,” she says softly, watching him, as though afraid that if she takes her eyes off him for even a moment, he’ll disappear just like Glenn did. “Okay. I—” She pauses to gather herself, taking a deep breath and brushing the hair from her face before walking over to join him. She glances outwards at the lake, leans her elbows on the railing even as she continues to speak. “I’m sorry. I was just… worried. After everything that happened with Glenn...”

Felix is silent. He doesn’t want her sympathy, but he knows Ingrid looks out for him like she does her own brothers. And maybe it’s true. Maybe a part of him, the part that yearned to know what had gone through Glenn’s mind that night six years ago, had come here for answers.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ingrid says suddenly. “This past week, I thought a lot about it. And I wanted to apologise.”

Felix is hit with a sense of déjà vu at the words as Ingrid continues: “I loved Glenn. We all did. I mean, when he left, I don’t think I left my room for weeks.” She huffs out a thin, watery laugh. “It was hard. I always looked up to him, and so did Dimitri. Sylvain, too. But I think that in the midst of all that grieving, we forgot it was you who lost a brother.”

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that. He remembers being fourteen and alone, trapped in what felt like a dark, endless hallway of doors, none of them leading outside. After what felt like a hopeless search, he had finally found one with something familiar behind it— the old garage, a place associated with music and laughter, somewhere he thought he could find respite. But Dimitri hadn’t wanted to continue with the band, had put away drumsticks for good, and so that door had closed on Felix, too.

He pushes the memory aside. “Ingrid, about what I said at the party last week…”

Ingrid blinks, surprised.

“I don’t remember everything,” Felix continues, hesitant. “But I guess I remember enough to know that I owe you an apology as well.”

Ingrid hums, turns back to gaze at the view. Her brows are drawn together, thoughtful. 

Felix has always been bad at apologies. _It’s because you’re so stubborn_ , Glenn had told him off once long ago, after Felix broke one of his figurines and was forced to own up to it. _It’s obvious you don’t care. If you say you’re sorry, you have to mean it_.

Felix means it. Ingrid is a hard worker, and she does things for people without asking anything in return. She earned everything she had through her own effort, not because it was given to her. She doesn’t deserve to be belittled like that.

“I resented you,” Ingrid says, so softly that Felix almost misses it. She continues, voice growing stronger with each word: “I resented you, because I always dreamed of going to university. I wanted to study and get a degree. To get out of this town and see the world, meet new people. It was— it _is—_ something I wish I could do, more than anything else.”

She sighs. “But I can’t. Because if I do, who will run the diner? My parents are getting ready to retire, and my brothers aren’t old enough. Even if they were, they have other ambitions. I know how hard my parents worked to raise us... I owe them this much. And this is where they need me. Right here in Fhirdiad.”

Felix listens, heart heavy.

“But you, Felix— you had the choice. You got to go to Garreg Mach, to live my dream. I would have done anything for that chance, but you didn’t even seem to care. And now you’re back here.” Ingrid lets out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Hearing you say that I have it all— that upset me.”

“I’m sorry,” Felix says. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Ingrid says. “Because I didn’t tell you. If you don’t tell people what’s on your mind, how will they know what’s bothering you?” She turns towards him, finally, and Felix finds himself taken aback by the earnestness in her expression. “I know your life at Garreg Mach probably wasn’t everything I imagined it to be, and I’m sure you had your fair share of problems. Things are hard when you compare yourself to others.” She offers him a small smile. “I guess if there’s one thing we can learn from each other, it’s that nobody’s life is as perfect as it seems, right?”

Felix nods, if only because he’s not sure he can speak around the lump in his throat. It occurs to him how fortunate he is to have a friend like her, willing to stand by him despite his shortcomings. If anyone had been thinking selfishly about themselves over the past few years, it had been him.

This time, there’s no tension in the silence between them. Felix watches the sun sink lower in the sky, hears the chirping of birds as a flock of them passes overhead. He thinks about the one person he knows who would appreciate this view, who would probably insist on taking a photo, too, because she loves nature and animals and warm colours.

Eventually, Felix speaks.

“At Garreg Mach, I had a friend named Annette. We met because we both liked music.” He can feel his heart beating in his chest, a steady _thump-thump-thump_. He’s nervous to talk about her, he realises. He hasn’t told anyone about her, hasn’t even thought about Annette since boarding the train back to Fhirdiad. He hadn’t allowed himself to.

Ingrid nods as she looks at him, attentive. Felix forces himself to continue. “She liked to sing. She would write these silly songs about studying, or cleaning her room, or what she was going to have for dinner. She was really great.” He finds the corners of his mouth turning up as he talks about her. But then he remembers what had happened, and his smile fades.

“We played for a fundraiser concert organised by the university, once, and her dad promised to come watch her sing. She has a shitty dad, makes mine look like a real Father of the Year. Her dad missed every one of her performances. He showed up for this one, but after our set was done. When we were packing up the equipment, he came to talk to her.” Felix swallows. “I don’t remember what he said, but it was absolute bullshit. And Annette, she was so upset. She’s the kind of person who’s always, always smiling, but he was being an asshole and she started crying, and I just— I lost it.”

Ingrid’s eyes are wide. Felix looks down, shame burning his cheeks. “It was just like that time with Dimitri. I was angry, and the next thing I knew, I was attacking him. Except with Dimitri, I just had my fists. With Annette’s dad—” He can’t say it, so Felix pulls his guitar case from his shoulder. Wordlessly, he unzips it to reveal his bass, a deep splinter running through the body, neck snapped clean down the middle.

“Oh,” Ingrid says, hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Felix.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. “Fractured both his knees. Still feel like he deserved it. But Annette— of course I couldn’t face her after that.”

“Oh, no,” Ingrid sounds upset. “Did she... was she okay?”

“Well, I mean. I did put her dad in the hospital.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

Felix avoids Ingrid’s gaze. “I haven’t really talked to her since then. She sent me—” _forty-six unread messages,_ the last time he checked his phone before turning it off at Garreg Mach Station. “A few texts, but I didn’t read them. I don’t know.”

Ingrid studies his face. She nods slowly, as if she’s trying to figure him out, and if Felix didn’t want desperately to know what was wrong with himself as well, he would probably be more afraid of that look. As it is, he feels strangely vulnerable under her gaze.

Felix swallows. “I was expelled,” he says. “That’s the real reason I’m back. Not because I wanted to leave.” At the look of shock on Ingrid’s face, he hastily adds, “Which isn’t to say I didn’t want to leave. I— I didn’t belong there. The whole time I was at Garreg Mach... I never quite knew why I was there. Everybody had some sort of a purpose. I had nothing. It was like I’d left everything behind to go searching for something I’d never find, you know?”

“I know,” Ingrid says quietly. “I do.” She’s looking somewhere behind him, and Felix follows her gaze to the opposite end of the bridge that leads off into the woods. “I used to come here often after Glenn left,” she admits. “Trying to make sense of it all. Wondering what he might have been thinking.”

“This isn’t even the fastest way out of town,” Felix says numbly. “There’s a shortcut to the station from where we live. Glenn was the one who told me about it.”

“So many questions and no answers.”

Even so, it feels like a weight off his shoulders to have shared this much, at least, with Ingrid. Felix feels lighter, whatever that was lodged painfully in his chest reduced to a dull throb.

“You care a lot about people,” Ingrid says. “You always did. It’s not a bad thing. And I know you have a lot to think about, but maybe you should start by talking to Annette.”

“Yeah,” Felix murmurs, eyes downcast. “I know.”

“Also Sylvain. But one step at a time, I suppose.”

Felix wonders how much she knows about what had happened. “Mm,” he says, non-committal.

“And you know I’ll always be here for you.” She smiles at him then, hair tinted gold in the sunlight, and Felix thinks maybe the reason he couldn’t ever imagine her ending up with Glenn was because neither of them needed another person to complete them. “No matter how badly you mess up. Okay? I mean it.”

“Thanks, Ingrid,” Felix says, and he means that, too.

It takes half a day of deliberating over whether to turn on his phone, an additional twenty minutes after he discovers it’s out of battery and needs to be charged, and ten excruciating seconds of waiting for his call to be picked up, before Felix is talking to Annette again.

Annette bursts into tears when she hears his voice over the line.

“ _Felix!_ ” she wails. “I can’t believe you— without telling me— I was _worried_ about you! Why didn’t you answer any of my texts?”

“Hey,” Felix says, the guilt hitting him full force now that he’s actually speaking to her. “Annette... I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t answer my texts, didn’t show up to class— and no one knew where you were! I mean, we could take our guesses after what happened, but there were all sorts of crazy rumours going around, and no one had heard from you! Not Dorothea, not Ashe... Linhardt made me do a bunch of his weird surveys before he would talk to me, and even _he_ said he didn’t know anything. I had to find out from student administration. _Student administration_ , Felix.” She exhales loudly, voice wobbly. “But I’m glad you’re okay, at least... Are you in Fhirdiad? Did you really go home?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, bemused that Annette would think he might talk to anyone else before her, but at the same time feeling so much worse about the whole thing than he thought he would. He takes a deep breath. “Listen, Annette... I’m really sorry about your dad.”

“I know you are,” Annette sniffs. “You’ve only apologised about a hundred times. Look, Felix, I was really mad at first. I still am, a little. My dad won’t be able to walk for _months_. But I know you didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

“Okay,” Felix says unhappily.

“I know you just wanted to protect me,” Annette continues. “And I wish you would stop acting like I hate you.”

“You should,” he mutters, a slip of the tongue he regrets as soon as he hears the sharp “ _What?_ ” in his ear.

“Felix Fraldarius,” Annette says angrily. “If you went all the way home just to feel sorry for yourself—”

“Okay, okay,” Felix winces, and because he never learns: “I’m sorr—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Annette says. “If you’re so sorry, then talk to me. Tell me what happened. You weren’t arrested and locked up like the rumours say, were you?”

“Not arrested and locked up,” Felix confirms. “I was expelled.”

“Okay,” Annette heaves a sigh, her dismay audible over the line. “Okay, that’s... Tell me how you’re doing. Wait, no, I know you don’t want to do that. Tell me what it’s like to be home. Tell me how your friends are doing?”

Felix closes his mouth, moved by how well Annette understands him despite being pretty much his polar-opposite— friendly and kind. At university, she would often hang out with him in the evenings and keep him company, after he mentioned off-handedly that Garreg Mach only seemed remotely similar to Fhirdiad after the sun had set. He remembers the first time she walked to class with him and handed him a cup of coffee— black with no sugar— insisting that she had no idea how he didn’t like whipped cream with his order, and that no, he wasn’t allowed to pay her back, because it was a _gift_.

“How’s Sylvain?” Annette asks, putting a damper on that thought, just a little.

“He’s— okay,” Felix answers, hoping she won’t question him. Unfortunately, Annette didn’t become his friend without being able to see right through his bouts of emotional constipation.

“And?” she demands when he doesn’t elaborate. “What happened with Sylvain?” She gasps suddenly. “Did he find out that you’re undeniably and irrevocably in love with him?”

Felix winces. “I’m not telling you anything ever again.”

“But it’s true! So, did he?”

Felix hesitates. “Maybe.”

Something about the way he says it makes Annette go quiet. “But not because you told him?” she asks, uncertain.

“No.”

“Oh,” Annette says. Felix can practically hear the way her face falls. “How bad?” she asks.

“Got blackout drunk and woke up next to him in bed, kind of bad,” Felix answers, because if he’s come this far, he might as well bare all. It’s not like Annette will judge him for it, which is the reason he’s told her so much about his life and friends back in Fhirdiad. That, and the fact that she’s the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve. It’s hard _not_ to be honest with someone who not only so genuinely cares, but gives good advice to boot.

This time, though, there doesn’t seem to be much that will fix things. “I’m sorry, Fefe,” she says, and Felix doesn’t even protest the nickname. “But you know what? If things don’t work out, it’s totally his loss. You’re like, the coolest person I know. You have really good taste in music. Plus, you don’t leave dirty dishes in the sink and you’re not a bathroom hog. And you don’t like sweet things! He could’ve had all your desserts. What a waste.”

That startles a laugh out of Felix. It’s just like Annette to always find the silver lining in a situation, to turn things around with her positivity. They could be in the middle of a war and she’d still find a way to brighten the days of those around her.

“Yeah,” he says. “No desserts. I guess so.”

“Even though I was sure he liked you back,” she says with a sigh, disappointment thick in her voice.

Felix snorts. “How would you know that?”

“I don’t know! It was just a feeling. It’s not like I’ve met him, but you do talk about him.” This is true— Annette had been good at drawing out Felix’s best-kept secrets in conversation. Not in a way that was insidious, but because he trusted her. “Also, I remember now, there was that song you wrote! You know, the one about making a promise to die toge—”

“Shut up,” Felix says, mortified. His attempts at songwriting in first year had been nothing more than confirmation that he didn’t share Glenn’s talent. Felix had long since disposed of the evidence. “How do you even know about that?”

“I might have. Found it? In your bin.” She laughs, nervous, as though she can see his glare over the line. “But Felix, you can’t blame me! I didn’t want your work to go to waste, and it’s not like I would do anything with it—”

“Burn it,” he growls.

“But it’s a good song! I like it! I thought that one day, you might even want to play it—”

“And you’ll choreograph a dance to go along with it, right?” Felix retaliates. He’s glad Annette can’t see him right now; he’s sure his face is an unattractive shade of pink. “Like the one you were doing when we met? With those little steps and spins and—”

“Stop!” she shrieks. “I get it, I’m sorry! I’ll never bring up your song again if you forget you ever saw that!” She makes a whimpering sound, and Felix laughs despite himself.

“For what it’s worth, I thought it was a cute dance.”

“Yeah, well,” she sniffs. “You think snakes are cute. So.”

“They’re kind of cute.”

“You’re kind of weird.”

He hadn’t realised how much he had missed this— joking with Annette, being at ease in a way that’s hard to be with anyone else. The second wave of guilt that hits him for ignoring her for close to two months is so intense that Felix almost opens his mouth to apologise again. But he’s sure that will only earn him another scolding, so instead he voices the question that he should have at the start of their call: “How have _you_ been?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Annette says, brightening instantly. “A _lot_ has happened recently. I don’t even know where to begin. Are you ready for this?”

“Mm hm.”

“Pay attention, because it’s a lot. So, first of all, the department got this new professor...”

He listens to Annette speak, her voice washing over him as she recounts stories about the happenings at university in animated detail. When Felix closes his eyes, he can almost pretend they’re hanging out in her dorm room after a late-night lecture, just like they always used to. Before he packed his bags and took a train back to Fhirdiad, before things happened with Sylvain. Before he started questioning what _really_ happened with Glenn. For the short period that Annette is talking, Felix thinks of none of those things, and it’s like he never left Garreg Mach at all. 

On Monday, Felix decides to suck it up and talk to Sylvain.

Sylvain is working second shift today— Felix knows his schedule by heart— which means that if Felix hurries, he’ll be able to catch Sylvain right when he gets off work. The streets of Fhirdiad are quiet at this time of the night, with most people having cleared the streets and gone home to have dinner with their families hours ago.

As he walks with quick steps down the road leading to Fifth Avenue, Felix reminds himself that if talking things through with Ingrid and Annette had helped mend his relationships with them, then there’s a good chance that it will do more good than bad with Sylvain as well. There’s also the fact that Sylvain is living rent-free in his head— hardly anything Felix does _doesn’t_ lead to thinking about Sylvain in some way or another, and there are only so many times he can wake up in the middle of the night with the ghost feeling of Sylvain’s lips on his neck before Felix is driven completely crazy.

So he’s going to talk to Sylvain. In the best-case scenario, Sylvain won’t hold anything against him, and things will be okay. In the worst-case scenario, Felix will have his heart handed to him in pieces, and will have no choice but to move to Dagda.

No big deal.

Just as he had predicted, Sylvain is locking up as the shop comes into view, his back to the road. Felix hovers under the nearest lamppost and waits, heart beating fast and hands clammy despite the weather. He can’t even complain, because it’s usually cold enough to need a scarf in Fhirdiad at this time of the year. As it is, he’s been getting away with wearing just a jacket over his usual clothes most days.

Sylvain spots him when he turns around, hesitating for a moment longer than seems promising before walking over. Felix is pretty sure he doesn’t breathe for the few seconds it takes for Sylvain to reach him. Up close and by lamplight, Sylvain looks slightly weary, the usual humour missing from his face.

“Seriously?” Sylvain mutters as he reaches out and lightly pokes Felix’s cheek.

Felix isn’t sure which of the two of them flinches more violently; Sylvain jerks his arm back, eyes round. “Holy— fuck,” he says. “Sorry! Sorry, I thought...”

Felix stares at him, bewildered. “You thought _what_?”

Sylvain has the grace to look ashamed. At the very least, Felix thinks, he feels less like he’s about to be put on trial than he did a minute ago. Sylvain looks at the ground, nose dusted pink. “You know how, uh. For that period of time, Dimitri did that thing where he kept thinking he saw his parents around town?”

Felix continues to stare. “What, am I dead to you?”

“No!” Sylvain looks up, alarmed. “No, I meant— you know what? Forget it.” He exhales, hands deep in his coat pockets. “Are you here to talk about last week, or what?”

And just like that, the tension is back. Felix has to remind himself to breath _and_ attempt some semblance of eye contact as Sylvain looks at him. “Yeah,” is all he manages.

“So, like. After the party.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t remember most of what happened. I was pretty smashed.”

“Yeah,” Felix says, throat tight. “Me too.”

“And I’m sorry,” Sylvain seems like he’s struggling to find the right words— an unusual look on him. He raises his hand to the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “Obviously our friendship is what matters most to me, so... what do you say we just forget it ever happened?”

Felix supposes it could be worse. Sylvain could have been awkward about the whole thing, or refused to address it at all. Though if growing up with Sylvain has taught him anything, it’s that avoidance isn’t Sylvain’s style— he’d much rather lie his way through things. In the past, he got tired of girls often enough that Felix witnessed him brushing them off on more than one occasion, usually with unconvincing excuses and empty promises.

There’s nothing that suggests Sylvain is lying now. And it does make sense that he’d want to forget it, because Felix can think of few things messier than accidentally sleeping with a best friend you don’t have feelings for. The only problem is that Felix can’t imagine going back to before. He has no idea how he’ll pretend he always hated seeing Sylvain flirt with girls _just because_ , or that he doesn’t know what it’s like to kiss Sylvain. Some things just can’t be undone.

This time, Felix can only find it in himself to nod. 

“Okay,” Sylvain sounds relieved. “Well, I’m glad you agree. So, listen, I actually have some urgent errands to run tonight, otherwise I’d have asked if you wanted to get food together. Some other time?” He grins, all false cheer.

Felix nods, feeling something crumble deep inside of him.

“Cool. Then I’ll see you around, Fe— lix,” he adds on hastily, like it’s weird to use the nickname now, and that hurts possibly more than any outright rejection would have. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and then Sylvain is gone, footsteps growing gradually softer as he makes his way to the end of the street.

Silence follows, and then the sound of a door being shut as a shop in the same block starts locking up too. Felix stands, not moving, until the unsettling hollowness spreads to every inch of his body.

Then he walks.

He doesn’t know why he does it— enough has happened this week without having to add _stalking_ to the list— but a part of him wants confirmation that Sylvain does not, in fact, have anywhere else to be tonight, and is treating Felix just like he did the many girls who used to vie for his attention when they were younger. Maybe then, Felix will be able to be angry at Sylvain. Maybe then, he’ll be able to blame Sylvain for all of this, instead of himself.

It isn’t difficult to catch up to Sylvain— he hasn’t gotten far. Felix follows behind him for about ten minutes, avoiding the light of street lamps and keeping a safe enough distance that he won’t be heard. Sylvain walks briskly, making a brief stop at the convenience store to pick up several bags of what looks like snacks and drinks before continuing on his way.

Felix is beginning to think it had been pointless to trail Sylvain after all, since he’s probably just going to go home now, when Sylvain reaches the junction after the post office and turns left instead of right.

Felix stops abruptly in his tracks. To the right lies the street where Sylvain and Dimitri’s apartment is located. To the left...

There’s a residential area down that way, as far as Felix can remember. Nothing much else of significance, and certainly not anywhere he would expect Sylvain to frequent. Which means the truth is even worse than he had imagined— Sylvain does have plans, after all, that involve visiting someone who lives on that street. Probably a girl.

It feels like a bucket of ice water to his face, even though Felix should really have known better. He fishes his phone from his pocket.

 _I think sylvain is seeing someone_ , he texts Annette.

The wind picks up as soon as he starts walking home, making his eyes sting. He didn’t think it possible, but he feels the most miserable he’s felt in a while, possibly since arriving back in Fhirdiad. Felix should be used to this by now, but it still sucks. It’s probably made worse by the fact that this time, he had really believed Sylvain had changed.

Annette’s reply comes several minutes later. _He doesn’t deserve you anyway!!!_ the text reads, accompanied by a long string of emojis ranging from cute to threatening, but even that’s not enough to make Felix feel better.

One of the disadvantages of living in a small town, Felix is well-aware, is that there’s a chance of being recognised wherever you go. He’s reminded of this when he visits the library the next day and makes a beeline for the front desk, with the intention of taking his mind off everything that had happened with Sylvain.

“Can I help— oh.” The librarian looks up at him, brown hair falling over her shoulders. “You’re... Felix, right? Sylvain’s friend?”

“Uh,” Felix says, trying not to wince. “Yeah.”

“I thought so. I was classmates with Sylvain in high school,” she explains with a smile. “Used to see you with him all the time. How’s he doing?”

Felix should probably have some idea of who this person is— their classes in high school weren’t big— but it’s not like he ever paid attention to the girls who knew Sylvain. Or any girls, for that matter. It’s doubtful Felix would even recognise his own classmates at this point.

“He’s... good,” Felix tries.

For once, he’s thankful that his lack of social graces doesn’t go unnoticed. The librarian immediately draws back, expression apologetic. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s always nice to see familiar faces, I get carried away. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yeah, actually,” Felix says. He hopes she won’t ask him too many questions. “Where can I find old articles from the local paper? Old ones, like, years old.”

“Like, days-of-coal-mines old, or last-few-years old?”

“Just a few years. Within the last decade.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” She places her elbows on the desk, index finger extended upwards. “There’s a digital archive on one of the computers upstairs. If you’ve ever used it before, it’s the same one— hasn’t changed since we got it, which was before I started working here.”

“Great,” Felix says, relieved. “Thanks.”

“Give me a buzz if you need help. But you probably won’t miss it.”

This turns out to be true. Felix locates the computer on the second floor easily, and it’s a mere ten minutes before he’s scrolling through the database of _Fhirdiad Daily_ articles, vaguely impressed by just how much happens in one day. The chances of there being an article on Glenn’s disappearance are slim, he knows, especially since it had been treated like a runaway rather than a missing persons case. Even so, he inputs the date from six years ago and hits _enter_.

The search comes up empty. Unsurprisingly, yet somewhat disappointingly. Felix scans the advanced search options, agitation tugging at his consciousness, until his eyes come to rest on the _key words_ field. 

A search for Glenn’s name produces several articles, most of them to do with _local musical talent_. An article on their church band catches Felix’s attention; he examines the unfamiliar, pixelated photo of them standing on stage in front of the altar. Felix must have been about twelve or thirteen at the time, clutching his base in his hands, face pinched in concentration.

He remembers that day because it had been one of their earliest performances, and a professional photographer had been at the church. The five of them had huddled together before going on stage, hands stacked together as Glenn did a cheer to encourage them. Felix remembers little of the actual performance— only how nervous he had been.

“Ugh,” Felix mutters, clicking out of the article. 

He spends some time looking through the rest of the search results, and then articles from the same period, and then articles that barely have any relation to his original query at all. It turns out there’s a lot about Fhirdiad he doesn’t know; apparently, the owners of the bakery got married out of town two decades ago— which would explain why the church only ever has subpar baked goods from the grocery store at its events. The man Dimitri had reported for possessing an illegal firearm had been released without charges shortly after their little fiasco, too. Felix skims through articles at random, the most fascinated he’s been since the time Annette convinced him to look up ‘cats with thumbs’ online.

At some point, he notices the _bookmarks_ button in the sidebar. Without thinking, he clicks on it and finds several articles saved. The title of the first one is enough to make his heart drop.

_MAYOR OF FHIRDIAD KILLED IN CAR CRASH_

_The mayor of Fhirdiad, Lambert Blaiddyd, was killed along with his wife, Patricia Blaiddyd, while driving to a church event held in Charon County on Thursday morning. According to the Itha Highway Patrol, their car was involved in a collision with another vehicle, and the two were pronounced dead at the scene. The passengers of the other vehicle were taken to hospital with minor injuries. Further investigations are currently ongoing._

Felix tears his eyes away, breath coming out just a little quicker than before. He had been twelve, maybe, when the mayor passed away, a few years too young to understand what it meant to lose a father. That might very well have been the last time he saw Dimitri smile genuinely. It feels like an age ago, and it’s something Felix tries not to think too hard about.

Except it’s difficult to forget when, several years later on the anniversary of the mayor’s death, Felix had punched Dimitri in the face at the memorial service.

Felix bites back a sigh, the temporary high of discovering bits of Fhirdiad’s history now dissipated. The rest of the bookmarked articles are similar— all from the last few years and to do with the ex-mayor. Felix exits the database somewhat reluctantly and is powering the computer off when his phone buzzes in his back pocket, nearly making him jump. He’s surprised to see the name flashing across the screen.

Sylvain.

Felix frowns, apprehension quickly replacing his surprise. Rationally, at this point, Felix doesn’t have a lot to lose. It’s for this reason he decides to pick up the call, taking the stairs down to the first floor two at a time and going for the main exit as the librarian calls after him to “Have a good night, Felix, and see you again!”

The sky is already dark, the street crowded with residents making their evening commute home. Felix had no idea so much time had passed. He leans against the side of the building adjacent to the entrance, out of the way of pedestrians, to answer the call. 

“Hey,” Sylvain sounds relieved. “I wasn’t sure you were going to pick up.” He pauses. “Because you don’t have your phone with you half the time, I mean.”

Sylvain has never had a problem when it comes to talking, most likely because he got in so much more practice than the average person. Felix used to wonder what a nervous or flustered Sylvain would sound like. Now that he’s on the receiving end of it, he finds he doesn’t like it.

Sylvain clears his throat. It sounds like he’s outdoors as well, indistinct voices and a car horn audible in the background. “So I just got off work early, and I was thinking. Do you want to, uh, get dinner? If you haven’t already, that is.”

 _That’s_ something Felix hadn’t been expecting. He had thought their making up had been cursory, and had expected Sylvain to want to avoid him whenever possible. Especially now that Sylvain seems to be acquainted with someone who lives in the residential area just outside of town. Someone he hasn’t told Felix about.

“Why?” Felix asks.

“Why?” Sylvain laughs, taken aback. “I— no, you’re right. I’m actually just a really handsome android that doesn’t need to eat to sustain myself, ever. Would you like to shop for some engine oil together instead?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Felix snaps, cheeks heating. But he’d rather not explain what he meant, so he quickly bites out a “Yeah, fine. I haven’t eaten.”

“Cool. Where are you now?”

“Near the library.”

“Anything in particular you’re in the mood for?”

“No. You pick.”

Sylvain makes a thoughtful noise. “Will do. Meet at the park?”

Usually, they would just go to the diner. The park is nearer to the other side of town, and there aren’t any eateries in the immediate area, but Felix trusts that Sylvain has a plan.

“Okay,” Felix says, unsure of exactly what he’s in for. “See you in ten.”

Sylvain shows up at the park with two paper bags bearing the local burger shack _Meat &Greet_’s logo, and a smile that could break hearts.

“Stop that,” Felix mutters as he joins him on the wooden bench Sylvain has seated himself at, taking the paper bag Sylvain offers him. He peers inside, the smell of greasy, smoked meat immediately making his mouth water.

“Stop what?” Sylvain asks.

Felix shakes his head. “Nothing.” He unwraps his burger and takes a big bite, relishing the familiar flavour. “Haven’t had one of these in a while,” he says around the food.

“Yeah,” Sylvain takes out his own burger as well. “They’re the best.”

They don’t say anything as they eat; it’s comfortable, if not a little gloomy on Felix’s part. At least things aren’t awkward. Felix tries his best to ignore his own confusion at Sylvain having invited him out— to the park, no less, where there’s hardly any loud ambient noise to fill the silence. He supposes Sylvain had always been the more proactive of them. It had been that way since they were young: wherever Sylvain or Dimitri went, Felix would follow.

“Are you mad at me?” Sylvain asks suddenly.

Felix looks at him over his burger. “Huh?”

“I said, are you—”

“I heard you.” Felix reaches for his soda and busies himself by taking a sip, trying to think what might have given Sylvain that impression. Does he have a good reason to be angry at Sylvain? _Is_ he angry with Sylvain?

“No,” Felix answers honestly.

“Oh,” Sylvain says. At Felix’s questioning look, he chuckles, though the laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean, you always look like you want to hit me. But these days especially, I can’t really tell. You know.”

Felix doesn’t know. “Okay,” he says slowly. And then, in the spirit of exchanging blunt questions: “Do you have a secret girlfriend?”

Sylvain nearly drops his burger. “No?” he splutters, looking at Felix with wide eyes. “No! I don’t have a secr— do you?”

Felix sneers. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know?” If Sylvain has any idea about where Felix is going with this, he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it. “I already told you. I don’t—”

“You don’t do that dating thing anymore,” Felix finishes for him. “Yeah, yeah.” He’s not sure what to believe anymore. Serial dating was never something Sylvain had been ashamed of before— has he really grown out of it?

Sylvain seems to wilt a little under Felix’s gaze. Felix decides to drop the matter, especially since Sylvain definitely looks like he’d rather be talking about anything else. Felix would rather not admit to having followed him around at night, anyway.

“Why the park?” Felix asks, changing the subject.

Sylvain looks relieved. “Thought it’d be nice to get some peace and quiet for once,” he explains, leaning back in his seat and spreading his arms, slow grin making its way across his face. “And this weather! Might as well enjoy not getting hypothermia while it lasts, right? This autumn is _really_ dragging on.”

Felix had been thinking the same. While he’s not opposed to non-sub-zero temperatures, there’s something about autumn eating into the edge of winter that feels more like a delaying of the inevitable than anything else. He would rather it come quickly, like having a band-aid ripped off, rather than peeling at it slowly.

Felix wrinkles his nose. “It’s not that much warmer right now.” He’s used to Fhirdiad’s bitter cold, but he can think of a few people back at Garreg Mach who wouldn’t survive ten minutes in this weather.

“Oh,” Sylvain looks at him with large eyes. “Do that again.”

“What?” Felix stares at him.

“That thing you did with your nose. It was cute.”

“Fuck off.” Felix narrows his eyes and goes back to his burger, face warm. Even now, Sylvain is good at getting under his skin. It’s hard to know how to act, with Sylvain still teasing him like this after everything that had happened.

Felix thinks of nothing as they finish their food, balling up his paper bag and tossing it towards the nearest bin afterwards. It’s something they used to do when they were younger— between him, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Dimitri, no one was particularly good with their aim, so it was always a fair match.

He misses by about a metre. Sylvain’s paper bag follows, disappearing into the bushes on the opposite side of the bin.

“Nice,” Sylvain says. The next few minutes are spent locating their paper bags and dropping them into the bin neatly, after which Felix finds he’s hardly noticing the evening chill against his skin anymore.

“What now?” he asks, hands on his hips.

When he looks over at Sylvain, Sylvain is smiling— not the charming grin he has on all the time, but something _gentler_ , for lack of a better word. Felix’s heart does a weird sort of flip in his chest. For a moment, he remembers why he didn’t think he could do this. Feeling this way all the time is so fucking _painful_.

“Hey, Felix?” Sylvain says, voice quiet.

Felix feels himself still. “Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.” Sylvain takes a few steps towards him, closing the distance between them. “Ever since you came back.”

His tone is serious, making Felix uneasy. He thinks back to the time Sylvain had been interrupted when they were talking in the underground tunnel. “Okay,” Felix says.

Sylvain is nervous, he realises. In all the years Felix has known him, he’s never seen Sylvain look this way before.

Sylvain is close enough that Felix can see the amber of his eyes, the way his lashes fall against his cheeks. The air between them is thick with anticipation.

Sylvain takes a deep breath. What comes out of his mouth is something Felix doesn’t expect, nor could possibly have predicted.

“Miklan is alive.”

When Sylvain was ten years old, he didn’t come to church for a month.

Felix remembers the incident clearly because the seat next to his had remained empty for weeks, with no one to trade jokes with or make fun of the way the pastor talked. Ingrid always sat on the other side of the hall with her family, and Dimitri up front with his parents; even Glenn was with his friends from school, leaving Felix swinging his legs in the seat next to Rodrigue, staring at the stained glass windows to pass the time.

“Why don’t you go sit with Dimitri?” Rodrigue had whispered to him between hymns, but Felix just shook his head. The mayor’s wife was a pretty lady who liked to fuss over her stepson, gently brushing hair out of his face and dusting off his clothes every so often. She was as kind as she was unfamiliar, and she made Felix nervous.

According to Sylvain’s parents, Sylvain had caught a stomach bug and was home sick. Word got around, however, that the real reason for Sylvain’s absence was that his brother had pushed him out of a tree while playing in the woods and then left him there with a broken arm in the middle of winter, resulting in a bad case of pneumonia.

The Gautiers rarely spoke of their older son. Miklan was a burly teenager with a foul mouth and cruel personality— the kind of kid who kicked stray animals and got into regular fights at school. He mostly kept to himself, possibly because he had no friends. The only thing Felix knew about him was that he showed up at church each week without fail, often sitting alone near the back.

As everyone left the hall after service, Rodrigue hanging back to talk to the mayor, Felix was so preoccupied looking out for Glenn among the crowd that he nearly ran head-first into Miklan. The older boy towered over him, face twisted in a permanent scowl. Apart from the colour of his hair and eyes, he looked nothing like Sylvain.

“The hell are you looking at?” Miklan sneered.

Felix, aged eight, took a step back, intimidated by all the stories. He watched Miklan unfold his arms and glanced towards the exit, wondering if he’d be able to make it there before Miklan punched him, when someone grabbed hold of Felix’s shoulder.

“Get lost, Gautier,” Glenn snapped, pulling Felix behind him. “Stay away from my brother.”

Recognition flashed in Miklan’s eyes. “Didn’t think you were the protective type,” he said, looking Glenn up and down. Belatedly, Felix remembered that they knew each other because they were close in age and went to school together.

Glenn barked out a laugh. “Like you know anything about me. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” Miklan’s features shifted into a leer. “Like you, you mean?”

For a moment, Glenn hesitated, looking like he was unsure of whether to bother engaging him in conversation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Saw you with that Janvier kid at school. D’you think the rest of us are blind?”

Glenn made a soft _tch_ sound. “I should hope not,” he retorted. “Seeing as you’re already dumb—”

Miklan moved as if to hit him, but a figure stepped suddenly between them. It was Father Jacobson himself, an air of importance about him despite his medium stature. His pale eyes were fixed on the older Gautier son, his voice stern.

“Is something the matter, Miklan?”

Surprisingly, Miklan seemed to shrink under his gaze, “No,” he mumbled.

“Good,” Father Jacobson said. “As I’ve said before, I expect you to set a good example for the young ones. In fact, there’s something I would like to talk to you about...”

Glenn took this as their cue to leave, grabbing hold of Felix and leading him away by the arm. “Sounds like he’s in for another lecture,” Glenn laughed under his breath. “Serves the fucker right.” And then: “Don’t tell dad I said that word in front of you.”

“Who’s Janvier?” Felix asked.

“Classmate I had a thing with. It’s not a thing anymore. Don’t tell that one to dad, either.”

Felix nodded obediently, letting Glenn pull him along. He chanced a glance backwards when they were far enough away, but by then, Miklan was gone.

That’s the one distinct memory Felix has of Sylvain’s brother. Felix never spoke to him again, nor did he really see Miklan around, except for at the occasional church event. Sylvain’s house wasn’t somewhere they spent much time, and according to Sylvain, Miklan was kicked out by their parents before he turned sixteen.

“Careful,” Sylvain says, snapping Felix back to the present. 

They’re walking through a part of the woods Felix doesn’t recognise, the ground uneven beneath his boots. Sylvain leads the way, a step or two ahead, looking back every so often to check that Felix is still behind him.

“Just— watch where you’re going,” Sylvain warns. “Swear I fell on my face more than once when I first came through here.”

“Yeah, right,” Felix mutters. Sylvain takes far too good care of his face for that to be true. “Remind me again what we’re doing here.”

When Sylvain had looked him in the eye at the park and asked, _Do you trust me?_ , Felix had had no choice but to nod. Yes, he trusted Sylvain. Even if Sylvain had just told him that his brother— whose severed arm had been found in the middle of town, whom everyone believed dead— was alive, Felix didn’t for a second doubt him. And now he’s following Sylvain through the woods blindly, quite literally, just because Sylvain had asked him to.

Surely, tonight can’t get much weirder.

His boot catches on something as he walks— the snaking root of a large tree— and Felix stumbles. Somehow, Sylvain is there to catch him. He grabs Felix’s arm, the other hand firm against Felix’s back, and Felix allows himself exactly one second to lean into the touch before pushing Sylvain off. 

“What are you, fucking prince charming?” Felix grumbles. What he actually means is, _Thank you, Sylvain, I would have fallen on my face if not for you_ , but Sylvain can afford to figure that out on his own.

Instead of a comeback, though, Sylvain steps away without a word. He’s acting weird, Felix thinks. Cautious. Because of what— Miklan? Felix tries to recall the last time Sylvain had talked about Miklan, but apart from his supposed death, Sylvain hadn’t mentioned him. Not recently, and not in the many years they’d known each other.

“What are we doing here?” Felix asks again.

This time, Sylvain answers. “I think Miklan might know something about Glenn.”

Felix’s entire body stills. It takes five, maybe ten seconds for the words to sink in. “And you’ve known this for how long?” Felix asks.

“Listen, Felix—”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Felix demands. It comes out harsher than he’d intended, and Sylvain seems to flinch back a little at his words.

“Look, I’m sorry, I— Felix, listen to me for a second.” Sylvain takes a step towards him and his hands are on Felix’s shoulders, though his face is still hidden in shadow. The surface of Felix’s skin is prickling, and it takes everything he has not to shrug Sylvain off. “I don’t know anything more about Glenn than you do, okay? So I thought— I thought you should hear it from Miklan himself.” His grip on Felix’s shoulders slackens. “Miklan’s been saying a lot of weird shit, and you know what he’s like. He’s an asshole, right? Just... promise me you won’t let him get under your skin.”

“Fine,” Felix bites out, still unsure of where this is going, still trusting blindly. “I promise.”

He can practically feel Sylvain’s relief. “Okay,” Sylvain breathes. “Then... let’s go.”

He continues to lead Felix deeper into the woods, until the terrain evens out to something easier to traverse on. The setup resembles something out of the many horror movies Ingrid has forced him to watch over the years, but Felix’s thoughts are too focused on Glenn to dwell on that. At some point, they pass a discarded bicycle that Felix is sure he’s seen before, and the landscape around them grows less unfamiliar.

Eventually, Sylvain comes to a stop at the old treehouse. He stands a short distance from it, looking up into the canopy, just as Felix had done the night he returned to Fhirdiad. 

“Miklan,” Sylvain calls. “It’s me.”

Apart from the chirping of crickets, the woods are quiet. Felix hardly dares to breathe. 

And then, so soft that Felix would have missed it had he not been listening carefully, there’s a click. The treehouse lights up a pale yellow, and a dark figure emerges from the entrance holding what Felix presumes is a torch. Awkwardly, gracelessly, the figure descends the ladder. It seems to give up after the first few steps and simply let go, falling the remaining couple of metres and landing feet-first on the ground below with a _thud_ that shakes the surrounding bushes.

Felix can’t see his face in the dark, but his silhouette is unmistakable.

“Hey, didn’t I fuckin’ tell you not to—” There’s a sudden, blinding light in Felix’s face, and Felix raises his hand on reflex to shield his eyes. “Oh,” Miklan says, the anger in his voice vanishing, quickly replaced by something more sinister. “ _Oh_. Well, look who it is.”

A gentler light floods the area as Sylvain starts turning on several electric lamps placed on the ground around them— not unlike the ones they used to use when they went camping as children. A plastic bag bearing the town’s convenience store logo lies at the foot of the nearest tree. Miklan stands in the middle of the clearing, the left sleeve of his coat dangling loosely against his side.

Felix stares, trying to contain his disbelief. _Has Miklan been living out here in the woods?_ is his first thought. It’s almost immediately followed by _for how long?_ and _why?_ , but Felix pushes the questions aside, all of them second to finding a clue to Glenn’s whereabouts.

“So,” Miklan says, his voice scratchy, probably from disuse. “You finally decided to listen to me.” Something about the way he says it raises the hairs on the back of Felix’s neck. The comment is directed not at him, Felix realises, but at Sylvain.

“Shut up,” Sylvain says coldly, as he comes back around to stand with Felix. Not next to Felix but a step in front of him, like he’s making sure to place himself in between Felix and Miklan. It reminds Felix of the time when Glenn had done the same. Except now, Felix is no longer afraid of Miklan.

“Where’s my brother?” Felix demands. It comes out accusing, as if Miklan had been somehow responsible for Glenn’s disappearance, when that couldn’t possibly be true.

Could it?

Miklan’s face goes momentarily blank, before twisting into a grotesque grin. “Of course you’d ask that. Don’t you wanna know how I ended up here, like this?”

“No,” Felix says. “I don’t give a fuck. Tell me where my brother is.”

Miklan says nothing. And then he throws his head back and laughs, loud and grating, like the sound of metal against metal. Felix feels his hands curl into fists at his sides, fingernails digging painfully into his palms.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, a warning in his voice, and it takes Felix a second to realise Sylvain isn’t talking to him.

Miklan gradually quietens, wiping his right hand across his eyes. “Fine,” he says, all the humour suddenly gone from his voice. “You wanna know so bad? I’ll tell you.” It sounds like a threat, and as he walks up to them, tiny twigs breaking under the weight of each step, Felix can hear his own heart thumping audibly in his chest.

“He’s dead,” Miklan says. “Glenn is dead.”

Silence.

Dark, deathly silence. The sounds of the woods— the chirping of insects, the whisper of the wind, the rustling of leaves— all of them disappear. Every sound around them fades to absolute nothingness.

“You’re lying,” Felix says, his voice distant even to his own ears.

“No,” Miklan says. He’s only a few steps away from Felix now, and Felix can see the ugly scar that runs across his face, from above his right eye to below his left. “I’m not.” And then, in case Felix hadn’t heard him the first two times: “Glenn is dead.”

Something inside Felix snaps, like a guitar string wound the wrong way. He doesn’t realise he’s shouting until he hears the words spilling from his own mouth.

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Shut up, shut the _fuck_ up, you fucking _liar—_ ”

It’s just like the time he had seen the pathetic look in Dimitri’s eyes at the memorial. Just like the time Annette’s dad had made her cry. The part of himself he’d tried so hard to suppress rears up like a beast, a scalding anger clouding his vision. Felix sees nothing but red, his world narrowed down to a singular intent: to hurt Miklan.

“Felix!”

Felix launches himself towards Miklan as strong arms wrap around him from behind, holding him back. Unthinking, mind a blank sea of rage, Felix kicks out, clawing at the grip to free himself. He hears a hiss of pain as his fingernails dig into skin, but Sylvain doesn’t let go.

“ _Felix_ , stop it. Felix. Please.”

Sylvain isn’t any stronger than him, but the sound of his voice shakes Felix, reminding him for a second of where he is. Felix latches onto that to anchor himself against the crushing waves of anger, resists the primal instinct to attack.

This time won’t be like the last few times, Felix thinks. He has control over this. He’s not going to lose himself again.

Slowly, the anger subsides. Felix stops fighting Sylvain, breath coming out hard, shoulders heaving.

Miklan is watching him, a hint of wariness on his face.

“Miklan, you’d better not fuck around,” Sylvain says. He sounds shaken, but otherwise determined to keep it together. “Don’t forget who’s keeping you alive.”

Miklan is lying, Felix thinks. He has to be. There’s no way anything bad could have happened to Glenn. Glenn is somewhere out there, far away, living his dreams. In Enbarr, or maybe somewhere else by now, free after having left everything behind. Including his family. Including Felix.

That doesn’t sound like the Glenn he knows.

A part of Felix had always believed, deep down, that Glenn would never have upped and abandoned him. It just wasn’t like him. Felix had learnt to rationalise over the years, invented theories and excuses as to why Glenn hadn’t come back, no matter how far-fetched. But Glenn disappearing without saying anything to him is the one thing Felix had never been able to explain.

Miklan’s expression is scornful, but he seems to consider Sylvain’s threat. “Guess I wouldn’t put it past you,” he mutters with a shrug. “We’re related, after all.”

Felix’s blood runs cold at his words. “Was it you?” he spits. “Did you— to Glenn—”

Miklan’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Then, then who—” Felix takes a step forward, and the world tilts; Sylvain’s arms that had been holding him back are suddenly the only thing holding him upright. He takes a deep breath, trying to push down the horrible sense of dread. “How do you know what happened to Glenn?”

“Because I was _there_ , you stupid brat—”

“Enough,” Sylvain snaps. “Keep it down, someone’s going to hear.” He makes as if to release Felix, but takes one look at him and reconsiders, loosening his hold without letting go of him entirely. Felix grips Sylvain’s arm like a lifeline. 

Sylvain turns back to Miklan. “Explain,” he commands. “From the beginning.”

Miklan looks disgruntled at being told what to do, but complies.

“The church is corrupt,” he says. “It’s been that way for a long time. Shady business dealings, using funds for personal gain— the church leaders recruit desperate kids by promising them all kinds of power. Money, influence, drugs, whatever. They groom you for this shit. I was in on it since I was— what, twelve? That’s how I know all this.”

He’s lying, Felix thinks faintly. There’s no way he isn’t. His story is completely absurd. All of them grew up going to church. Their parents are friends with the church leaders.

“Mind you, not everyone is corrupt, but the ones high up are. Spring before he disappeared, Glenn was convinced there was something strange about that car accident with the mayor. Kept going on about how something was up with our town. Kept digging, wouldn’t let it go.” Miklan glares at the ground. “I _told_ him it was fuckin’ stupid, but he didn’t listen. Poked his nose where he shouldn’t’ve. Church wasn’t happy, so they got rid of him. Simple as that.”

Miklan is crazy, Felix thinks. The church, responsible for Glenn’s disappearance? It’s impossible. None of it makes any sense.

“What do you mean... got rid of him?” Sylvain asks, unease heavy in his voice.

“I mean what I said,” Miklan sneers. “You want details?”

Sylvain swallows. “How do you know all this?”

“Like I said, I was one of them. Up until recently, when they started looking for a reason to get rid of me. Think they were scared I would talk, like I’m doing now.” He snorts. “Well, they can go fuck themselves.”

“But if it’s true,” Felix murmurs, because it can’t possibly be true. “How? How could they get away with it?”

Miklan rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you understand. They have people where it counts, important people in high places. The town council? They control it. Police? Don’t bother trusting them.” He takes a step closer, and Felix unconsciously takes a step back. Miklan’s voice is low, and something flashes in his eyes. “I didn’t believe it then, but he was right, Glenn was. The church got rid of the mayor. They had him killed because he was in their way.”

Felix feels sick. “That’s impossible.”

And yet, part of him is already beginning to join the dots. People often talk about how Fhirdiad has been in decline for years, even though it had been doing perfectly fine before. Eight years, to be precise, since the time Fhirdiad got a new mayor. The previous mayor was _the only man who deserved the title_ , Klaus had said. There had been articles about Lambert Blaiddyd bookmarked in the newspaper archive at the library, almost as if somebody had a special interest in the circumstances of his death.

Miklan shrugs. “Glenn figured it out,” he says. “You’re his brother. If you tried, maybe you could figure it out too.”

Glenn hadn’t told Felix anything. But if any of this were true, that would make sense, too. No one would tell a fourteen-year-old that the church is run by corrupt individuals.

Felix looks at Sylvain, a silent plea. 

“I don’t know,” Sylvain says, apprehensive. “I’m sorry, Fe. But—” He hesitates. “I can’t think of any reason he’d be lying.”

Felix turns back to Miklan, fighting to keep his voice steady. “What else did you know about my brother?”

Miklan looks at him. “Nothing,” he says, impassive. “He wanted information on the church, and I was the only person he knew who was in the right circles.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes averted. “Had nothing to do with me. Wasn’t my fuckin’ problem.”

“Holy fuck, Miklan,” Sylvain breathes. “Did you…”

Miklan glares at him. “I had nothing to do with the church finding out about him. Like I said, wasn’t my problem.”

Felix has to remind himself to breathe. Miklan’s story _would_ explain why Glenn had disappeared without a trace. Why he had disappeared at all.

“Why are you telling me this?” Felix asks, voice hoarse. “Why now?”

“Because they tried to kill me too,” Miklan snaps, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Listen, I didn’t know they fuckin’ _murdered_ people until the shit with Glenn. I spent _years_ after that doing whatever the fuck they told me to, so it wouldn’t be me next. But I ended up here anyway, didn’t I? So you get to hear the truth.”

Felix doesn’t want to believe it.

“What did— what did they do to him?” he asks. “To Glenn.”

Miklan says nothing.

“ _What_ ,” Felix snarls. “ _Did they do to my brother?_ ”

“Felix,” Sylvain pleads, grabbing his arm. He hovers close, almost protective.

“Let me go,” Felix says, at the same time a sudden, loud rustling echoes through the woods, and the sound of distant voices drifts over.

All three of them freeze.

“Great,” Sylvain mutters. “We made too much noise. Someone’s probably here to check.” He gives Felix’s shoulder an urgent nudge. “Time to go.”

“Hey, kid.”

Felix stiffens as Miklan tosses something small towards him; he manages to snatch it out of the air, mostly on reflex, and turns it over in his palm to examine it. It’s a small metal key, tied to a long piece of string in the middle. Like someone had worn it as a necklace.

“Dunno what that’s for, but it was Glenn’s. Maybe you’ll find answers. Maybe not.”

Felix swallows. “How did you get this?”

Miklan’s lip curls. “None of your damn business.”

Sylvain intercepts him even before Felix takes a step towards Miklan, reaching out and seizing the collar of Felix’s jacket like one would the scruff of a cat. “No time for that, we’re leaving. Now.” Felix almost hisses at him.

Miklan takes the opportunity to turn off his torch before he starts extinguishing the lights in the area one by one.

“Do you have to leave these lying around?” Careful to keep his voice low, Sylvain plucks the discarded convenience store plastic bag from the ground and tosses it towards Miklan. “Someone might see.”

“Yeah, real fuckin’ suspicious to find trash in the woods,” Miklan returns sarcastically.

Sylvain sighs. “Fine. I’m not the one hiding.” He glances around. “Hurry, turn that off, we’re getting out of here.”

The noises grow gradually louder as the strangers close in, and Sylvain grabs Felix’s arm a second time, presumably to avoid getting separated from him. As Miklan picks up the last electric lamp that’s still lit, he stops to cast a sideways glance at Felix.

Felix glares. “What?”

“Nothing,” Miklan mutters. “You look just like him.”

And then, with a flick of his finger, they’re plunged into darkness once again.

The silence stretches on like the dark— endless, like it’s swallowed them whole. Felix doesn’t know where they’re going. He follows Sylvain, and it’s all he can do to focus on placing one foot in front of the other, one in front of the other, trying to hold himself together. Sylvain never lets go of his arm.

“You okay?” Sylvain asks, probably once they’ve covered enough distance that no one will hear them.

Felix doesn’t know. He can’t feel very much beyond the painful drumming in his head, the exhaustion making his movements sluggish. Miklan’s words keep replaying in his mind, _they got rid of him_ and _I was there_ and _I didn’t know they_ murdered _people_. Felix just wants to forget all of it.

“I need to get home,” he mumbles.

“You can stay over at mine,” Sylvain offers.

“No.” The key Miklan had given him weighs heavy in Felix’s pocket. “I need to go home first.”

“Okay,” Sylvain slows to a stop. He looks around before angling himself to the right, pulling Felix in a different direction from before. “But after that, you’re coming back to—”

“Did you know?” Felix asks.

Sylvain looks back at him, questioning.

“What Miklan said,” Felix clarifies. “Everything he told me. Did you already know?”

Sylvain turns back to look ahead of him. “Not everything,” he says, and Felix can’t help but notice how tired he sounds. “He told me the church was after him, which sounded crazy, but hey— him showing up missing an arm was pretty crazy.” He pauses before continuing. “He wouldn’t leave, so I took him food. A few times a week, and sometimes he’d talk. At some point, I started suspecting he knew something about Glenn, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about that. Said he would only tell you. I thought Glenn leaving might’ve had something to do with the church, but not— not like this.”

 _Not like this_. Felix feels sick to his stomach. Sick, and ashamed that he’d nearly lost it _again,_ and that Sylvain had to physically restrain him to stop him jumping on Miklan. He really does have a knack for showing his worst to the people who matter most.

He takes the hand Sylvain has on his arm— Sylvain noticeably jumps— and examines the back of it. But the woods are too dark for him to see anything, and Felix has to run the pads of his fingers over the exposed skin instead, heart sinking when he feels the raised welts indicating fresh scratches.

“Sorry,” Felix mumbles, releasing his hand. “I didn’t mean to, uh…”

“Oh,” Sylvain says, voice strained. “It’s, um— yeah. Do you ever cut your nails? Wouldn’t be the first time you—” he stops, clearing his throat. “I mean. Don’t worry about it.”

Felix stares at his back, mortification adding to the guilt.

They return to walking in silence, awkwardness now infused in the heavy atmosphere. By this point, Felix has gathered his wits enough to recognise the route home, the same way he’d come when he cut through here from Fhirdiad station. He had heard strange noises that night in the woods, like someone had been moving about. It all makes sense in hindsight.

“It’s okay, you know,” Sylvain says after a while.

His voice is soft, and something in the vicinity of Felix’s chest clenches. “What is?”

“For you to be angry,” Sylvain says. “At— everything, I guess.” He seems to be struggling to find the right words again; Felix is sure this is something he’ll never quite get used to. “If someone said what Miklan said about someone that important to me... I don’t know. I probably would’ve reacted the same.”

The burn of shame from nearly losing his temper earlier flares up again, and Felix looks at the ground. Still, he can’t imagine Sylvain being very upset over anything related to Miklan. “Did you think Miklan was dead before you found him?”

Sylvain lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah. But, I mean, I wasn’t talking about Miklan. I meant someone really important to me, like— like you.”

The trees thin out as they reach the edge of the woods, and Felix’s next step throws him into the light of the nearest streetlamp, an orange glow illuminating the deserted path leading to the nearest residential area. Having to think about Glenn had distracted him from this completely, but Sylvain’s words resurface the other kind of pain Felix has been harbouring, the one he’d shoved into the darkest corner of his mind and hoped would go away if he could convince himself everything would be okay, everything would be _fine_ , as long as Sylvain was still speaking to him.

 _Someone really important to me, like you_. Somehow, the words hurt. Felix suddenly wishes they were back in the woods, where everything had been obscured _—_ _safe—_ in the dark. He doesn’t usually bother keeping his emotions off his face where people can see them. He doesn’t really know how.

It’s all too much. Miklan. Glenn. And of course, Sylvain.

“It’s not fair,” Felix mumbles. 

Sylvain looks over at him. “What?”

“It’s not fair,” Felix repeats, louder this time, anger and hurt finally spilling over like a glass filled past the brim. Sylvain doesn’t know the kind of weight his words carry— and why would he? Felix had watched him go through girl after girl, a tiny part of him afraid that it could be him one day. Flirting, casual touches, compliments— none of these mean anything to Sylvain, they come easily enough to him that they’re practically routine. But for Felix, they matter. Every one of them draws him in, makes him feel more helpless. They always have.

He wonders exactly how long he’s been falling.

“You say shit like that, but you have no idea.” It’s difficult to stop talking once he’s started, years of suppressed feelings overflowing, his anger directed at the source. “You say whatever you want without ever thinking about how your actions affect others. You— with your— your stupid perfect _face_ , and your empty words—”

“Felix?” Sylvain asks, biting his lip in worry, clearly not understanding. “If I made you mad somehow, I’m sorry—”

“And even then. Even then, I— for _years_ I don’t even fucking know how long— and you act like you don’t know—”

He’s standing on the precipice of something incredibly dangerous. One little push, and there will be no going back. They’re an arm’s length apart, concern visible on Sylvain’s face under the light of the streetlamp, and Felix feels his desperation reach a breaking point.

“I don’t know what?” Sylvain asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

“That I _love_ you, you asshole.”

It’s different, spoken aloud. Felix had known it was true for a long time, had long since accepted it, but hearing it come from his own mouth sends a new spike of fear through him. This is something that can’t possibly be ignored, now that it’s out in the open.

Felix has entrusted his heart to Sylvain yet again.

He stands completely still, eyes fixed on the little weeds growing out from the cracks in the asphalt, waiting for Sylvain to speak. The silence is as cold as it is deafening, and Felix is pretty sure the stinging of his eyes isn’t because of the wind. Fuck.

Tonight, Felix might just have lost Glenn forever. The thought that he might lose Sylvain too is almost too much to bear.

“Do you... mean that?”

Felix can’t look at Sylvain. He can’t. He had thought Sylvain would have figured it out after that night, but maybe he hadn’t. Felix manages to lift his head enough to glare at Sylvain’s chest, and even then, the effect is probably dampened by the fact that his nose has started to run. He tries to sniff without looking pathetic. The last time he’d cried in front of anyone was back when Glenn disappeared, and he isn’t about to start again now.

Sylvain’s voice is hushed. “You _do_ mean it.”

Felix can’t tell what Sylvain thinks, not without looking at him. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he says. “Well. There. I said it. So—”

“It was you,” Sylvain says hastily. “I stopped chasing girls because of you.” 

Felix raises his head to blink at him. Sylvain’s gaze is intense, almost pleading. It isn’t a look Felix recognises. There’s something more than just urgency there— it takes a moment for Felix to try and process, the gears in his head working furiously, but Sylvain actually looks _hopeful_.

“After you left for Garreg Mach— that was when I realised,” Sylvain says. “All those girls I dated— I didn’t really care about any of them. I mean, sure it sucked when they dumped me, but I always got over it.” He exhales a shaky breath. “Not with you, though. I know it was never like that between us, but after you left, I was a mess. Everything reminded me of you. My guitar, stray kittens by the side of the road, an emo pair of boots at the mall—”

“My boots aren’t _emo,_ ” Felix mutters.

“I even ordered your coffee with mine a few times by mistake. Little things like that. I was always thinking about you.” He takes a small step forward, reaches out tentatively to take both of Felix’s hands. Felix isn’t sure why, but he lets him. “I don’t know when it started, but I realised it then. It was you all along.”

Sylvain’s hands are warm, just like they always are. Felix doesn’t dare allow himself to get used to the feeling.

“So you missed me,” Felix says faintly. “That’s not weird. I was your best friend.”

“No,” Sylvain appears flustered. “That wasn’t all it was. Give me a little credit here. I mean, do you— do you think about _kissing_ your best friend?”

“Yes,” Felix says, narrowing his eyes. “Because I’ve been in love with my best friend for a while now.”

Sylvain winces. “Right. Well. It’s nice to know we’re on the same page.”

Felix knows what Sylvain looks like when he’s lying to convince girls to spare him their time or attention. Eyes twinkling above an easy smile, the muscles in his face perfectly relaxed. Right now, there’s a myriad of nervous emotions swirling on Sylvain’s face, the very opposite picture to one of confidence. Sylvain worries at his lower lip with his teeth as he waits for Felix to say something.

He isn’t lying.

“You said to forget that night after the party,” Felix says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. “You told me to pretend it never happened.”

Sylvain looks surprised. “Well, yeah. I thought that’s what you would’ve wanted. I thought that for you, it must have been a mistake.”

“And for you?”

Sylvain hesitates. “Not— not a mistake. I mean, I didn’t mean for things to end up that way. And I wish we weren’t drunk, or the circumstances were different... But I didn’t regret it, or anything.” He seems to notice the expression on Felix’s face, and lets out a small laugh. “Come on, Fe, don’t look at me like that. I could never regret anything with you. I’d wanted it for so long.”

It’s relief that floods through Felix, along with something else that burns in his gut.

“Not as long as I’d wanted it,” Felix says, reaching out impulsively to grab Sylvain by the collar and pull him down for a kiss.

It’s kind of sloppy, neither of them quite prepared for it, lips meeting at an awkward angle. Sylvain is quicker to react, shoving Felix backwards and kissing him hard, tongue flicking into his open mouth as Felix feels the hard metal of the lamppost come into contact with his back. He kisses Sylvain back, tongue chasing his as Sylvain groans low in his throat, the sound shooting straight between Felix’s legs.

Sylvain’s hand dips to Felix’s waist, and _fuck_ , it’s the first time he’s kissing him _while sober_ , and Felix isn’t the only one who wants it, and Sylvain is pressed up against him and a damn good kisser and— that’s about as far Felix’s thoughts go before his fight-or-flight instincts kick in hard and he shoves Sylvain off of him, face impossibly hot.

“Wow,” Sylvain says, equally breathless, flush high on his cheeks. A grin breaks out across his face, like he can’t help himself, and his tone is teasing when he says: “You know, in case you forgot, _you_ were the one who just kissed _me—_ ”

“Shut up,” Felix says, heart racing.

Sylvain laughs, and Felix feels light-headed. He’s going to have to tell Annette not only that this is a thing now, but also that he confessed his feelings to Sylvain in the literal middle of nowhere in the dead of night, and then made out with him against a lamppost. The worst part is that Annette will probably find the entire thing hilarious.

Felix waits for his heart to stop beating in double time before speaking again. “I thought you only liked girls.”

“Guess not. I don’t know. I like you, don’t I?”

That piques Felix’s interest, and he looks over at Sylvain, eyebrow raised. “You don’t know? You mean you only ever dated girls, even when I was gone?”

“Well, yeah, I mean—” Sylvain stops talking, and Felix can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Wait, are you saying— did _you_? At Garreg Mach?”

“I didn’t date,” Felix says, leaving Sylvain to draw his own conclusions.

As it turns out, Sylvain is very quick on the uptake when it comes to all things concerning relationships. “You _did_ ,” Sylvain says, eyes wide. “With _who_? Why have I never heard anything about this?”

 _Because we didn’t talk for two years_. Felix makes a face. “Like you’d know who they were even if I did tell you.”

Sylvain gapes at him. “Okay,” he says finally. “You can tell me now. What’s your type? How many were there?”

Felix snorts. “I watched you date like, a hundred girls. Suck it up.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t serious about any of them!”

“Right, and I was completely serious about mine.”

Sylvain opens his mouth as if to protest, then closes it. He seems to be at a loss for words, before changing the subject abruptly. “So,” he says. “You think my face is perfect?”

“Shut up,” Felix says, face growing warm again. “Don’t push it.”

Sylvain laughs at him again, and it’s so open and filled with affection that for a moment, Felix almost forgets everything that’s weighing on him— Glenn, the church, Miklan, the key, all of the uncertainty. For a moment, it’s just him and Sylvain, and Felix has no reason to carry any guilt with him. But then the moment passes, the veil lifts, and he’s once again standing at the edge of the woods, a growing ache in his chest and the answer to Glenn’s disappearance sitting in his coat pocket.

Somehow, Sylvain seems to sense the minute change in atmosphere. “Time to go?” he asks. Quietly understanding, no explanations needed.

“Yeah,” Felix murmurs. “Glenn has a locked drawer in his room,” he explains, so that Sylvain won’t be kept in the dark. “I think that’s where I’ll find answers.”

“Right.” Sylvain sets off in the direction of Felix’s home, Felix having to jog the first few steps to catch up with him. They walk without speaking for a while, Felix trying to slow the sense of dread spreading through him by not thinking of anything at all.

“Hey, Felix?”

“Yeah?”

“You do know you’re not alone in this, right?”

Felix almost stops walking. Something in him seems to unwind at Sylvain’s words, some unnamed emotion that had been carefully packed away a long time ago. To Felix, losing Glenn had felt like losing the one person who would always be on his side no matter what. It’s a strange sort of gratitude that accompanies the realisation that there are others who have his back— and probably always had, even if Felix hadn’t realised it.

Maybe that was all Felix had ever wanted— not to be alone. 

Sylvain continues to walk even as he looks at Felix, not knowing just how important he is, probably not realising how much his words mean.

“I know,” Felix says, hoping Sylvain will understand everything he wants to say, somehow, because he’s never been good with words. “Thanks, Sylvain.”

He doesn’t know what he’ll find in Glenn’s drawer. He’s afraid to know. This all still feels like a bad dream, like he’ll wake up any minute, fourteen years old, his brother pulling off his blankets and yelling at him to get up and get ready for band practice. Where they’ll play the list of hymns for the next service and then a song or two Glenn had written, over and over until they’re perfectly synchronised— Sylvain, Ingrid, Dimitri, Glenn, and him. When that was all they had to worry about. 

But this reality, too, is one in which he shares a mutual and valuable understanding with Ingrid, where he went to Garreg Mach and met Annette, and where Sylvain likes him back. There comes a time where it becomes pointless to be trapped in the past, Felix knows, and with Sylvain by his side, it feels almost like he’ll be able to face whatever is ahead.

“Come here,” Sylvain says with a grin, looping an arm around his neck and pulling him close as they walk, and Felix lets him, just this once.

Inside Glenn’s drawer sits a messy stack of papers containing newspaper printouts, leaflets, and an assortment of documents. All of them are related in some way to the church and its members, and most of them have words written on them in Glenn’s distinct scrawl.

Felix pages through the stack, heart sinking further with each sheet, fingers stilling when he comes across the article about the mayor’s car accident. The words _church event in Charon County_ are underlined in blue, with what looks like a phone number scribbled in the margins, and _Holy Church of Indech — claims not to have invited Mayor Blaiddyd_ under it. Further down the page, _passengers of the other vehicle_ is similarly underlined, along with another note: _Itha Hospital_ — _no record of other passengers_. _FAKE_ , reads the verdict at the bottom of the page, underlined twice. 

“Unbelievable,” Sylvain murmurs, reading over Felix’s shoulder. “I guess it makes sense, in a fucked up sort of way. Mayor Blaiddyd would never have let things get this out of hand.”

Among the stack is a list of names of every member of the church that spans several pages— some names circled, others with a strike through them, the remaining untouched. Documents containing evidence of money laundering and misuse of funds. Records that don’t add up. Felix has no idea how Glenn managed to uncover all of this, but like Miklan had said, he had clearly done some digging.

“Looks like most people we know aren’t involved, at least,” Sylvain says, turning the sheet around to show Felix some of the names. Next to the strike running through _Rodrigue Fraldarius_ is a messily scribbled, _thank god_. “Ingrid’s parents are clear, too.”

“And yours,” Felix says.

“And mine,” Sylvain agrees with a wry smile. “Can’t say the same for my dear brother.” He flips the page and scans the list of names. “Ah, here’s my algebra teacher from middle school. Yikes.”

Even without looking through everything, it’s obvious Miklan had been telling the truth.

It still hasn’t quite sunk in, the knowledge that Felix won’t be able to see Glenn again. It still doesn’t seem real. The conversation with Miklan feels like it took place days ago, and Felix stares at the words that become jumbled letters on the pages in front of him, exhaustion sweeping over him like a thick blanket.

It’s just like Glenn to have done something this reckless. He had always been the fearless one, the one who would refuse to give up on something until he got exactly what he wanted. The kind of person who would never stand for injustice, even if it cost him dearly. The kind of person who would never have abandoned him by choice.

Felix misses him. If Sylvain’s brother had come back from the dead, why couldn’t his?

“Hey,” Sylvain says softly, arm bumping his, as if he can hear the thoughts running through Felix’s head. The fact that he’s here is already a comfort in itself. “It’s gonna be— well, I don’t know about okay, actually. It’ll take time.”

Felix swallows, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“Take it easy, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You can hold my hand, if you want,” Sylvain offers. Felix doesn’t even have it in himself to glare; he huffs out a weak laugh.

“Will you tell Rodrigue?”

Felix looks down at the papers in their hands, heart heavy. “No,” he decides. “Not yet. He probably knows a lot of these people. Also...”

“Glenn?”

Felix nods, not holding back his sigh. “He’s been waiting six years for Glenn to come home.”

It had made Felix unspeakably angry before, the way Rodrigue refused to acknowledge the reality. But how much better would knowing the truth be? To Rodrigue, Glenn had simply run away to pursue a dream he wasn’t allowed to in Fhirdiad. Not because he didn’t trust him enough to tell him about a dangerous discovery, or gotten involved in something that was bigger than himself. The night Felix returned from Garreg Mach, he had heard the familiar croons of Manuela Casagranda’s voice echoing through the kitchen. In all his years growing up, he had never before witnessed his father listening to music for leisure.

Felix wouldn’t know what to tell him.

“What now?” Sylvain asks.

“I don’t know.”

There isn’t anyone in this town they can really trust, nor any authority to turn to for help. The only person they know for sure is on their side is Miklan, who holds no influence to speak of. It feels like the time long ago when Felix had borrowed Glenn’s Rubik’s Cube to play with— rows of mixed up colours that wouldn’t align, no matter how hard Felix tried. With every rotation, the cube grew more mystifying than before. A puzzle with seemingly no solution.

“I know somewhere you could start.”

 _You_ , not _we_. Sylvain is looking at him, gaze unwavering, and Felix stares back. “Where?”

For the second time that day, Sylvain is wearing that look— sincere, with an almost tentative half-smile gracing his face. Charming exactly because he isn’t trying to be. A look that, in spite of everything, makes Felix feel weak on the inside. He knows the answer to Sylvain’s question before Sylvain asks it.

“Do you trust me?”

Mayor Blaiddyd’s memorial was held on the same day every year, which somehow always ended up being the gloomiest day of the year— dirty gray clouds obscuring all traces of the sun, and a constant drizzle that made the air humid and ground muddy. It was as if the earth itself mourned for him, and not just Fhirdiad.

Felix had seen how Dimitri looked standing in front of the commemorative plaque in his father’s name. He knew how that felt, too. It’s one of the reasons why, when Dimitri turned to him, an apology on his lips, Felix felt his right hand curl into a fist at his side.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri had said. “About Glenn, too.”

Felix had punched him, then.

It would have been an even bigger deal than it was if everyone present hadn’t known they’d grown up together. Rodrigue had been absolutely furious. In the weeks that followed, Felix avoided Ingrid’s glares and Sylvain’s jokes about Dimitri needing an eye patch almost as diligently as he avoided Dimitri himself, protecting his anger like a flame in the wind, because it was easier to stay angry than to admit that he had been in the wrong.

He still feels a visceral guilt looking at Dimitri now, across the table in Dimitri and Sylvain’s apartment. Sunlight streams through the windows, the morning after the encounter with Miklan in the woods. Felix had come back here with Sylvain after they had replaced Glenn’s documents, Felix vowing to himself to uncover the whole truth as he closed the drawer and turned the key in the lock.

“Sylvain said you had something to tell me?” Dimitri asks, blinking as he looks between them. He’s just back from his bartending shift, still in his work clothes with his hair tied back.

Felix leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. There’s a steady pressure building up behind his eyes, the beginnings of a migraine. “I can’t do this,” he mutters.

“Yes, you can,” says Sylvain, who’s in the seat next to him even though he doesn’t technically need to be, in what Felix presumes is a display of moral support.

Felix sighs. He had fallen asleep at some point when they had come back here last night, and was awoken an hour ago by Sylvain coaxing him out of bed with a, “Come on, he’ll be back soon,” pressing a kiss to his temple and a mug of coffee into his hands. The whole thing had been unusually domestic, and Felix might have protested, or something, if he hadn’t been preoccupied trying to get his eyes open.

Right now, it feels like he hadn’t slept at all. Dimitri is looking at him expectantly— for a response, but not for anything else in particular. Certainly not an apology. Felix knows that Dimitri is kind to the point of exhaustion, that he swallows every bad thing that ever happens to him, often blaming it on himself. Anger threatens to rise at the very thought, and Felix pushes it down and takes a deep breath. He can still see shades of it on Dimitri’s face now, the sadness Felix detests precisely because he had never allowed himself to feel that way. Yet he’s acutely aware that if anyone deserves to know the truth, it’s Dimitri.

So Felix tells him.

He tells him about the church, his father, Glenn. About what Miklan had said, and the evidence in Glenn’s drawer. Dimitri listens to everything, expression unchanging, until Felix is done talking. He sits there, so still and silent, that Felix isn’t even sure he’s heard him at all until Dimitri speaks.

“The night he disappeared,” he says slowly, laboriously. “Glenn tried to tell me something about my father.”

Felix hadn’t thought he could feel worse than he already does. He reaches instinctively for his mug— his third coffee after the first two had done the bare minimum in getting him upright and coherent— and takes a gulp that nearly scalds his tongue as Dimitri continues.

“I don’t remember what it was, because I didn’t listen. I’d long since come to terms with what happened to my father.” Dimitri looks up, eyes filled with a remorse that stirs something unpleasant in Felix’s gut. “Glenn said that he was going up to the church. I never thought to ask why. I might have been one of the last people to see him that night.” 

The thinnest of strings hold together Felix’s composure. One mistake, one lingering thought about how he’ll never see his brother again, and they might snap. And then he might do something he’ll regret— get emotional or, God forbid, start _crying_ in front of Dimitri— and Felix can’t let that happen.

So instead, he gets angry.

“Glenn always did what he wanted,” Felix says coldly. “It’s not like you told him to go.”

Dimitri looks regretful. “But I could have told him not to.”

“It’s not like you had any idea what was going on,” Felix says, annoyance making his voice rise. “Not everything has to be about you, you know. Not everything is your fault.”

Dimitri is wearing the same expression he had at the memorial all those years ago, and Felix hates it. He wraps both hands around his mug to stop them from trembling, wishing that Sylvain would say something— anything to lighten the atmosphere or help him out— even though he knows that Sylvain not speaking is completely deliberate.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri murmurs, head bowed.

“Don’t be,” Felix snaps, a familiar animosity flaring up in him. Dimitri has no right to be apologising for anything. He has no right to wear that look on his face, either, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders when he could barely handle the pressure of being the son of a mayor in a small town. “It’s pointless. Your moping won’t bring anyone back.” Felix shoots a glare at Sylvain, who continues to say nothing, seemingly content with watching Felix struggle on his own.

“Go on,” Sylvain says, an intense focus in his eyes as they travel between his two friends. “Now you’re really getting somewhere.”

Dimitri is speaking before Felix has time to ask Sylvain what that’s supposed to mean. “Felix,” he says. “Please understand that, like my father, Glenn meant a great deal to me—”

“If he meant so much to you,” Felix interrupts. “Then why did you give up on the band?”

Silence follows. Dimitri slowly raises his gaze to meet Felix’s. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix sees Sylvain lean forward, almost imperceptibly.

“Because we were Glenn’s band,” Dimitri answers. “It didn’t feel right to carry on without him. The band was over the day he disappeared.”

“Bullshit,” Felix spits. “The band didn’t die because Glenn disappeared. It died because you let it.” _Because you turned your back on me_ , he doesn’t say. “You cared more about some _memories_ than the rest of us who were still there.”

“That... wasn’t my intention,” Dimitri says, looking like he’s finally beginning to get it.

“That was all I had,” Felix tells him. “ _You_ were all I had. Without the band, I had nothing.”

Dimitri is silent. Felix is already wishing he could retract the admission, the sheer honesty of it leaving him drained. He hates feelings. Between everything that’s happened today and yesterday, he wants to curl up into a ball and never have to deal with them again.

“Grieving isn’t a weakness,” Dimitri says quietly. “I grieved for my parents, and I’ll do it again.”

 _It’s a weakness when you do nothing else for years_ , Felix thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is: “I’m not like you.”

“No,” Dimitri agrees. “I suppose you aren’t.”

“Don’t you want to do something about it?” Felix can’t help but ask. He wants to step forward and grab Dimitri by the collar, shake him, ask him how he accepts things so easily. But that would be hypocritical, because Felix doesn’t think he’s fully processed everything even now, let alone figure out how to act on it.

Dimitri seems only to consider this for a moment. “When the time comes.”

He says it with an air of finality, and Felix is reminded once again of how much of a dead end they’re facing. At the very least, it seems they have Dimitri on their side now. 

“I guess that’s that,” Sylvain says, his first proper words since the start of this conversation, and Felix almost startles at the sound of his voice. Sylvain has on a small smile, though it’s weary at the edges, as Dimitri stands and turns to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Felix says abruptly, stopping Dimitri in his tracks. “For... punching you. That day.” 

Dimitri isn’t facing him, but he nods. “Excuse me,” he murmurs, and it’s a strange sense of liberation that fills Felix’s chest as Dimitri disappears into his room, like the last of his shackles have finally been broken. His door shuts with a click, and this time, it feels more like the closing of a chapter than Dimitri shutting him out.

“Told you you could do it,” Sylvain says, just the two of them sitting side-by-side at the table. Felix can’t even deny it. When Sylvain leans over and puts a casual arm over his shoulder— as he’s so fond of doing— it’s only because of how exhausting today has already been that Felix leans into his touch with a soft sigh.

“Oh,” Sylvain says, clearly not expecting that. With his other hand, he reaches over to brush hair out of Felix’s face. “This is new.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Felix warns.

He feels the gentle rumble of Sylvain’s laugh where his head rests on Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain doesn’t withdraw his hand, instead carding gentle fingers through the loose strands of Felix’s hair. It’s strangely comforting. It feels kind of nice.

“I was guilty of it too, you know,” Sylvain murmurs, when neither of them move from their places. “Not sticking by you when Glenn was gone.”

“You weren’t the one who gave up the band.”

“Still,” Sylvain sighs. His fingers slow for several seconds, as if he’s thinking hard about something, before they continue moving again. His next words are soft. “Well, I’m here now, and this time I’m here to stay. That’s a promise.”

In spite of everything that’s happened, Felix’s heart swells with some unnamed emotion. He’s glad that Sylvain can’t see his face. It’s the second promise Sylvain has made him, in all the years they’ve known each other, and for now, it’s enough.

“Three sets of pheasant skewers,” Ingrid says, placing the dishes on the table one after the other. “I’ll be back with drinks. Give me a sec.”

“I’ll help,” Sylvain offers, standing to try and squeeze past Felix, who is sitting next to him in the outer seat of the booth. Across them, Dimitri has already shoved a skewer in his mouth.

“No, you won’t,” Ingrid says. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, Sylvain obeys. “And then you’ll join us, right?”

Ingrid is already making her way back to the kitchen. “I’ll think about it,” she calls over her shoulder as she disappears behind the large swinging door.

They’re at the diner, a week after Sylvain had led Felix into the woods to talk to Miklan. The town had seemed different ever since that day. People who passed Felix on the streets no longer looked like just people; Felix found himself wondering how many of them were involved with the church, whether they knew anything about what had happened to Glenn. Almost everyone was a suspect: residents who had lived in Fhirdiad for as long as he could remember, people he had gone to school with, customers at Rodrigue’s workshop who recognised him as Rodrigue’s son. The fact that they were familiar faces made things all the more unnerving.

The paranoia had continued to gnaw at Felix even as he and Sylvain walked into the diner, Felix only relaxing when he saw that the place was almost empty this near to closing time.

“Didn’t you have an early shift today?” Dimitri looks up from his plate for long enough to ask Sylvain. Knowing him, it’s probably his way of asking why they had taken so long to arrive.

Sylvain leans back in his seat, an annoyingly smug look on his face. “Nah, I took the day off. Had a hot date.”

Felix glares at him.

“Ah,” Dimitri says, looking very much like he regrets asking, but is too polite to just abandon the train of conversation. “That’s... nice. Where did you go?”

Sylvain jerks a thumb towards Felix. “This guy wanted to get a new bass after he got overexcited and smashed his last one, so the music store—”

“I told you, I didn’t _get overexcited—_ ”

“And then we went back to his place since his dad’s not home in the day— no offence, Dima, we love your company, but you wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere within hearing distance of us anyway—”

“ _Sylvain_ , one more word and I swear to God—”

Dimitri sighs audibly and goes back to his food.

Felix massages his temples as Ingrid reappears with four drinks, handing them out by sliding the glasses neatly across the tabletop.

“How do you do that without spilling them?” Sylvain asks.

“He’s in a good mood,” Felix warns her. “Don’t humour him.”

“The same way I used to keep the three of you out of trouble,” she replies drily. “Practice.” With the last drink in her hand, she slips into the seat next to Dimitri, opposite Felix.

“Didn’t you say this place has been understaffed lately?” Sylvain folds his arms across the table, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that Felix knows is bad news. His suspicions are confirmed when Sylvain continues: “You should ask Felix to help out. He’s like, basically unemployed anyway. Put him in a cute little apron too. Please.”

This time, Felix rolls his eyes. “You’re _insufferable_. Shut up.”

Dimitri snorts into his tea, unlike Ingrid, who doesn’t bother hiding her laugh. “So glad you’re here to take on the burden of dealing with him now,” she tells Felix sweetly. “After we had to listen to him whine about you for two whole years.”

 _That’s_ interesting. Felix glances over at Sylvain, who, in a rare display of embarrassment, has gone slightly pink. Felix decides not to pursue the matter for now, though, if only because he had promised Annette he would introduce his friends to her, and she has far more dirt on him than Ingrid could possibly have on Sylvain. He makes a mental note to ask Ingrid to elaborate later.

The jovial atmosphere around them settles as they eat, quickly turning sombre as they have a spare moment to think about why they’d originally decided to meet. The tension hangs over them like a dark cloud, growing heavier with each moment that passes, until Ingrid breaks the silence.

“I found three businesses,” she says in a quiet voice. She looks around the diner to make sure no one is listening in, then back at them, no trace of the smile on her face from several minutes ago. “I did background checks, used the diner as a cover to reach out for potential partnerships, talked to everyone who’s ever been on good terms with my parents. Three local businesses I found that have some sort of connection to the church. But I don’t know the nature of those connections yet, and there could be more.”

“That’s good,” Sylvain says, and Felix nods in agreement. “I mean, obviously not a good look for them, but this is a start. It’ll help us.” Ingrid makes a small _mm_ in her throat as their attention shifts to Dimitri.

“Seven names on Glenn’s list,” Dimitri reports. “It’s incredible how much one can learn by listening in on people’s conversations in a bar. If you know what to look for.”

Ingrid looks distressed. “ _Please_ be careful, we don’t want a repeat of what happened with— well, the last time someone figured something out.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Dimitri assures her. “I’m aware of the risk.”

Glenn’s list of every member of the church had contained over a hundred names, with half of them either circled or struck out. Working their way through the remaining names would probably be impossible if not for Dimitri.

“I talked to Miklan,” says Sylvain. “Managed to get a few names out of him. They checked out, too. Every one of them circled on Glenn’s list. Unfortunately, nothing new.”

Felix continues to nod, taking stock of the new information. Miklan, in the two times Felix had visited him since that night, had been difficult to talk to, but not dishonest. Felix knows his cooperation isn’t out of goodwill or anything to do with Glenn, but because his freedom rests on them exposing the corruption in the church. However they might do that.

He’s so deep in thought that it takes him a while to notice that everyone is looking at him expectantly.

“What about you, Felix?” Dimitri asks. “You said you had something to tell us.”

“Right,” Felix shifts in his seat, closing his eyes briefly as he remembers what this was supposed to be about. He doesn’t realise he’s reaching for Sylvain’s hand under the table until his fingers brush skin, and Sylvain takes his hand to give it a gentle squeeze. Felix takes a deep breath.

“I found Glenn’s guitar.”

He had followed the vague clues he’d gleaned from talking to Miklan and made a few guesses, searched for days in what felt like the same patch of woods. Walked in what felt like circles until his feet were red and raw until eventually, he had found it, half buried in the undergrowth. The final piece of proof that Glenn wasn’t somewhere out there.

He hadn’t hesitated in telling Sylvain. Sylvain is watching him carefully now, giving Felix a reassuring nod when Felix meets his eye. Dimitri is looking away, expression pained, and Ingrid has a hand pressed to her mouth. Felix remembers the look on her face when they had first told her about Glenn, how she had refused to believe it until they had shown her the contents of his drawer. How she had cried afterwards.

“Are you sure?” she asks him now, in a whisper. “Are you sure it was his?”

“Yeah,” Felix answers. “It was his.”

Glenn’s guitar hadn’t been salvageable— not after having been exposed to the elements for so long. Even if it had been, it wasn’t as if Felix could simply take it home. Instead, he had stayed rooted to the spot, standing there in the dying light. It began to rain at some point, and he had crouched down next to the earth, shivering in the dark, letting the water run down his face. The ache in his chest had been so insurmountable that he could barely breathe.

When he finally, finally gathered the strength to rise to his feet and step away, it had felt like he was bidding his brother farewell for good.

Ingrid’s eyes are red. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says. The despair had faded into something like resentment, and then an ever-familiar anger. No matter how Felix had tried, Miklan refused to speak about what had really happened to Glenn. Not knowing the truth eats at him, but Felix knows acting on his anger will get him nowhere. This time, he’s determined to do better.

He sucks in another breath. “I guess I’m going to figure out what really happened, and... I’m going to finish what Glenn started.”

“We,” Sylvain corrects. “ _We’re_ going to finish what Glenn started.” 

“Together,” Ingrid adds.

Dimitri extends his hand so that it’s hovering just above the table, palm facing downward. Felix is momentarily stunned by the gesture. It’s what they used to do with Glenn years ago— before going on stage to perform, hands one atop the other, a group cheer. It was them against the world. In that moment, they were invincible.

Sylvain releases Felix’s hand to join in. Ingrid extends her hand, too.

Slowly, Felix places his hand on the very top of the pile, feeling the warmth radiating from where their hands overlap.

“Together,” he agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts, especially if you've played Night in the Woods, or even if you came into this with no prior knowledge whatsoever! Kudos to anyone who can guess what happened to Glenn (there were hardly any clues in the fic itself, but if you look a little beyond that...)
> 
> A sequel isn't likely, but a prequel? Who knows.


End file.
